The Teenage Wasteland
by Carmen's Daughter
Summary: It's barmy, really. I've only known the girl for four months—and only considered her a friend for the past two. Isn't it much too soon to feel so attached to her? In the end though, I decide I don't care if she's been my friend for two months or two minutes: with Hermione, I feel safe. [AU] [ROMIONE] [ONESHOT] [COMPLETE]


_Disclaimer:_ _All recognizable characters, settings, lines, and references to canonical elements within the_ Harry Potter _universe belong to JK Rowling and affiliated publishers. In addition, any aspects borrowed from the film canon are property of Warner Bros. This fanfiction exists purely for non-commercial entertainment, and the author is not benefitting from any form of profit. Rated T for language and some moderate scenes of implied sexuality._

 _ **The Teenage Wasteland**_ ◊ Carmen's Daughter

* * *

It starts with a look. Honestly, I've been avoiding it for weeks, because I find her more annoying than a boil on the arse. Whenever the teacher asks a question, she's the first to raise her hand—I swear I can _hear_ the sound of her fingers shooting sharply into the air, she does it so fast. It can be such a simple question too, like "What does Alice consume that makes her grow in size?" and she'll respond in such detail and length that we might think she is Alice herself. It's only the second month of school and the class is already at terms with the fact that we will not shine; we will not be the star pupils—not with Hermione Granger in the room.

There are rumors too; nasty whispers in the halls whenever she walks by. One boy says so-and-so's cousin's friend once called her "Giant Toothed Granger" on the playground, to which her face shook with angry tears before the insulter found himself violently pushed backward, landing painfully on his buttocks. The thing is though, no one could tell on the girl for pushing him, because she _didn't_ push him. The two were over three feet apart when the unexplainable event occurred, or at least that's how the story goes. Another girl's best friend's sister says she saw Hermione sitting outside of school one day, waiting for her mother to pick her up. She was staring at a flower bud on the front lawn when, suddenly, the flower bloomed—just like that, from her _staring_ at it. While that one wasn't particularly nasty, it was undeniably weird. Brilliant, but scary.

Admittedly, however, curiosity has built within me over the past few weeks, for I realize that, despite sitting next to the girl five days out of the week for the past two months, I've yet to _really_ get a good look at her. It's only her voice—shrill and bossy—that has made up my impression of her so far, for I hear it every day and groan each time. I've had enough of that. I want something else to associate with her—perhaps something less annoying, if it is possible. So, when our teacher allows for a free reading period while she grades the most recent test, I momentarily put down _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ , and—ever so discreetly—turn my head to look at her.

Her hair is impossible: a lion's mane of dark chestnut locks that protrude in a dramatic bush from her scalp. It falls just a few inches above the middle of her back in frizzy curls, utterly untamed. Her skin is a sort of dark vanilla hue, her cheeks full and rosy. Beneath long lashes I can make out chocolate brown eyes, focusing intensely on a visibly worn edition of _Romeo and Juliet_ —it must be her own personal copy, for I doubt our teacher would keep such an advanced text on the classroom bookshelf. The cultured know-it-all.

Her gaze suddenly snaps to me, and I feel my heart skip a beat. Perhaps I'm not as discreet as I thought.

"Can I help you with something?" she inquires with a quirked brow.

"N-No, er—sorry," I splutter and turn back to _Charlie_ , feeling my face heat with embarrassment. I immediately decide I shan't be looking at her again.

* * *

It happens during the luncheon period this time. Hardly even a full week has passed, and I'm already betraying my promise to myself. I'm sitting with the some of the other boys in my year, chewing idly at the corned beef sandwich my mother packs for me every day. The boys are talking excitedly about some sport, but I zone out, my eyes wandering lazily around the dining hall. My gaze passes over my sister Ginny, a year below me, chattering away happily with her friends at another table. Then, the path of my vision leads me to the back of the room where, sitting alone at one of the huge circular tables, is Hermione. Her lunch is set out in front of her and she's reading a book as she places a crisp in her mouth every few seconds. I almost groan again—just _looking_ at her annoys me. Why is she always reading? Why does she not care about making friends? Why does school seem to be the only thing she _does_ care about? Doesn't she know there's more to life than books and cleverness? Gods, she's annoying.

But then—seeing how annoying and insufferable she is—why do I find myself standing up, throwing away my rubbish, and walking toward her? Why do I sit across from her, placing my book bag on the table, and wait for her to acknowledge me? _Why?_

Hermione peers over the top her book and eyes me suspiciously.

"Hullo," she greets flatly.

"Hi," I reply. "Er… you're Hermione, right?"

"You've been sitting next to me for over two months, and you don't know my name, Ronald Weasley?"

"Yeah, I do," I defend myself. "I just… wanted to make sure I was, er—pronouncing it correctly."

"Understandable," Hermione shrugs, placing her book down on the table. "I can't imagine you meet many people named Hermione, do you?"

"You're the first." I dare to give a small smile, and am elated to see her return it. Her front teeth are huge; I briefly think of a chipmunk with bushy hair. "So… what are you reading?"

" _This_ ," she pats her book lovingly before standing it up so that I can see: a melancholy little girl holds a broom much too big for her; her clothes are improperly fitted and partially torn, "is _Les Misérables_ ; one of my favorites. I'm revisiting it for a bit of light reading." The accent she places on the title is impeccable, and I'm almost tempted to ask if she speaks French. It wouldn't surprise me at this point, since the girl clearly knows everything.

" _This_ ," I point incredulously at the book, which is at _least_ nine-hundred pages in length judging from size alone, "is light?"

She glares at me. "Yes, I think so. It's long, yes, but the language isn't difficult in the slightest."

"Oh, okay," I say. "So you finished _Romeo and Juliet_ already then?" When she tilts her head slightly to stare at me even more curiously, I add, "I noticed you reading it last week during the free period."

"Oh—yes, I did. Is that why you were staring at me, because you're interested in it? You can borrow my copy if you wish—"

"No, that's okay," I stop her before she ropes me into unnecessary reading, "and I was _not_ staring. I just decided to look at you because—well, I never really did before."

"Mmm," she purses her lips in apparent dissatisfaction at my response, "well?"

"Well what?"

"Is that why you're here then? To call me ugly in addition to being a know-it-all with no friends?"

"W-What do you mean?"

"I heard you when you said that to the other boys that day after maths. I believe I heard the word 'nightmare' somewhere in the comment too."

"Oh—you heard that?" My face flushes red in embarrassment and shame. It had been a particularly tiresome day, and it didn't help that our teacher instructed the class to switch papers with the person sitting next to us to grade the previous day's assignment. I had done all right, but the answers I _did_ get wrong were pointed out with unnecessary detail—instead of simply putting a slash through the number, Hermione wrote detailed explanations next to the problem indicating why I got it wrong and how to avoid the error next time. I promptly expressed my annoyance to the rest of the boys in our class afterward. She must have passed right by me in the process and I didn't even notice… "I'm sorry. That wasn't very nice of me."

"No, it wasn't." She suddenly looks very annoyed, and her hair looks bigger than ever, almost as if its volume corresponds to the intensity of her emotion. "Well? Get on with it then."

"I'm not here to call you ugly. I don't think you're ugly."

"Then why are you here?"

"I…" I trail off, looking to her, then at the sad girl on her book, and back at her again. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

Surprisingly, her expression softens. She leans back and relaxes, a small grin teasing the corners of her plump, pink lips. We share a moment of comfortable silence, studying each other.

"Maybe this is one of those times where it's okay not to know." For the first time, her voice is cool and inviting.

"Maybe," I smile back. She offers me a crisp from her bag and we spend the rest of lunch together.

* * *

"What's your favorite color?"

"What?"

"Your favorite color," she repeats. "What is it?"

"Red or orange, I'spose," I shrug. "And no, not because of my hair!" I add when I see her stifling a chuckle. "Why do you ask?"

"It seems like a standard question to ask when you're getting to know someone, doesn't it? Start with the basics."

"Yeah, you're right," I nod. "So, what's yours?"

"I like periwinkle. What's your favorite animal?"

"A lion. Yours?"

"Hmm," she considers the question, "I like dogs."

" _You_ like _dogs?_ " I teasingly scoff. "Impossible. You strike me as the biggest cat person I've ever seen, Hermione."

"Humph," she rolls her eyes, "I suppose I _do_ see myself getting a cat—if I ever adopt a pet, that is. Generally speaking cats tend to be more independent and easier to care for. But really, I admire dogs too. Especially the Jack Russell Terrier; they're my favorite. They're known for being especially loyal and energetic, you know." We turn a corner and on the opposite street there's a large park with various play structures. "I never noticed that park has a swing set."

"You like the swings?"

"I love them. I reckon I've never noticed because… I've never really had anyone to go to the park with."

"Well…" I think as we cross the street, "they're open now, want to go on?"

"Okay," she eagerly agrees. "But only for a minute. I don't want my parents wondering where I am."

"Right." I watch as she walks ahead of me, through the park gates, and to the empty swing set. She sets her book bag aside, sits, and turns her head in my direction, waiting for me to join her on the neighboring seat. But I suddenly have another idea. "Want me to push you?"

"Oh," she says, eyes fluttering in surprise. "Are you sure you want to?"

"I wouldn't offer if I didn't want to, silly!"

"Oh," she softly repeats, and I swear she's blushing. "Okay." She looks forward as I take my position behind her, placing my hands on the chains, just above where her own are gripping tightly. "Ready?"

"Yes."

I pull the chains and step back as far as I can before letting her go; she glides in front of me, a soft laugh escaping her lips. When she returns I give her a firm push on the middle of her back, and she goes even higher.

"Ah, Ron!" she shouts as my hands make contact with her back again. "I'm afraid of heights!"

"Then why'd you get on a swing, genius?" I laugh in response; another push.

"I didn't know you were going to push me this high!" Her attempt at scolding me is diminished by the clear laugh behind her words; she's enjoying herself whether she wants to admit it or not. "Let me down!"

"You want to go higher?" I tease and push again. "All right!"

"No, I said— _AH!_ " she squeals as I give her my most forceful push yet, and from where I'm standing I'm almost afraid she'll fly right off the seat and soar into the sun. She comes back and drags her feet into the ground before I can push again, and I grab the chains to help her stop. She's grinning madly as she turns to look at me, her face flushed.

"That was rather cruel of you!" she says, but the smile on her face tells me otherwise. "I could have fallen off, you madman."

"Aw, you poor baby," I tease, and we both share a laugh.

"What's this we have here?" a new but vaguely familiar voice sounds from behind us, and we turn to see one of our classmates: a boy—Barry or Barney or Brad, I can't remember his name—large and gruff with overgrown shaggy brown hair and a rotund gut. He's standing with another boy, smaller and skinnier, sniggering next to him. "You two are already calling each other 'baby'? How cute."

"A poor ginger and a know-it-all," the second boy comments. "Quite a pair, you two. But tell us Weasley, how do you kiss her with those big squirrel teeth in the way?"

"Shut up," I spit, taking a step toward them.

"Come on, Ron," Hermione says, tugging at the sleeve of my jacket. "Let's go."

"Yeah Ron, go home with your ugly girlfriend!" the shaggy-haired boy guffaws, and I snap. Snatching my sleeve out of Hermione's grip, I step forward and give him a good push, sending him sprawling backward and landing with an audible _thud_ on his bum.

His friend shoots me a wide-eyed look, his mouth hanging open in shock, momentarily stunned. I'm seething. "Bloody hell Weasley, we were just having a laugh!" By this time the first boy has regained his composure, glaring at me while rubbing wood chips from his sore backside.

"Your girlfriend is a freak, Weasley," he says. "And apparently, so are you."

"You can say what you want about me, but if you speak to her like that again, you'll be sorry. Let's go, Hermione." This time I'm the one to take her sleeve in my grasp, picking up her book bag in my free hand, and she follows me out of the park as the two boys look on at us with intense stares, muttering to each other. Finally, we turn a corner, and they're gone from our sight.

"Ron," Hermione begins, taking her sleeve and her bag from my protective grasp, "you really shouldn't have done that."

"What was I supposed to do? Let them talk to you like that?"

"I appreciate you defending me, but violence is never the answer."

"I _pushed_ him, Hermione," I emphasize. "It's hardly life-threatening."

"Still, what if he tells his other friends and they make a plan to beat you up? Or worse, he could tell his parents and they can report it to the school and you'll be suspended!"

"They won't tell. Blokes like that don't want to be labelled crybabies."

"You'd better hope so."

We're silent for the next couple of blocks, allowing the event to sink in. Okay, I _know_ my reaction was impulsive, but I couldn't help myself. Hearing those tossers speak about her that way made my blood boil. Just replaying their words in my head raises my temperature again, and I'm so lost in thought that I hardly realize Hermione is tapping my shoulder.

"Um, Ron? Isn't this your address?"

"Huh?" She points, and I turn my head to see that we are indeed standing before my modest family home. "Oh," I turn back to her. "Well… you said you only live a little farther away right? Why don't I walk you home? Just in case they—er, come back or something."

"That's very nice of you, Ron."

She guides me the rest of the way, and as we approach her house I realize that, while we definitely live in the same neighborhood, she certainly lives in… well, the _nicer_ part of it. I'm only slightly embarrassed; she knows I come from a humble background, with one parent being a used-car salesman and the other a stay-at-home mother. She knows most of the clothes I wear are hand-me-downs. But she doesn't seem to let that affect her opinion of me, and that's bloody brilliant.

We stop in front of a quaint little brick house, dark brown with white window frames and an impeccably manicured lawn. Hermione turns to wish me goodbye, and, for the first time, she extends her arms and hugs me. I stand there for a moment, momentarily paralyzed as I feel her tighten her embrace on my shoulders. I gulp, finally mustering up the courage to hug her back.

"Thanks," she mutters into my shoulder. "No one has ever done anything like that for me before."

"No problem," I reply, wondering if she can feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

I walk her home every day after that.

* * *

Barry and Whatshisface don't make trouble. In fact, no one makes trouble. The usual whispers that accompany Hermione as she walks through the halls cease. People no longer groan or share annoyed looks when she answers a question in class. She glows and I watch her, basking in her brilliant light. She eventually notices.

"People have been treating me differently—" Hermione muses as she plays with her baby carrots one day during lunch. She dips one in a small container of dressing and brings it up to her mouth, biting off half of it, "—since I've been in your company."

"Perhaps my immense popularity is rubbing off on you," I tease.

"No, I'm serious!" she insists, her face breaking into a small smile. "It's almost like… forget it."

"What is it?"

"No, it's stupid."

"I reckon I'm more likely to be struck by lightning in this very room than you are to say something stupid, Hermione. Tell me."

"Well…" her eyes dart briefly around the dining hall, as if she's looking for someone spying on us. But then her gaze fixes back on me, and she's all smiles again. "I think that people see me hanging out with you—and they know how good of a person you are—and so they think, 'hey, maybe that Granger girl is not that bad after all, if Ron Weasley likes her'."

"You think I'm a good person?"

"Of course I do."

"And you think other people think that too?"

"Yes," she beams. "I've seen you, Ron. Even before we became friends, I've seen the way people are with you. You make them laugh. You're… yourself. You don't try to be something that you're not. People see that and they see that… you're good. I dunno," she finishes with a sigh, popping another baby carrot into her mouth with a loud _crunch_. "I told you it was stupid."

Honestly, I'm gobsmacked. Utterly and irreversibly gobsmacked. I feel like an entire bag of sugar has been dumped on my head—what she said was _that_ sweet. And yet she's sitting there, still chewing at her little veggies, like she simply told me that my hair looks good today or something. As much as I want to jump across the table and hug her, I'm frozen in place, taking in her words.

"It's not stupid," I finally manage to say, and I decide to continue before I lose my nerve. "You're my best friend, you know that?" She looks at me with those knowing brown eyes, containing a sort of graceful maturity that far surpasses her years.

"I know," she replies softly. For once I don't care that she knows everything. "You're my best friend too."

* * *

"What are you smiling about, Ickle Ronniekins?" Fred teases me. It's a Saturday, and the snow is falling pleasantly in the early December morning. I'm grinning into my bacon sandwich as my thoughts drift to Hermione Granger; I can't help it. Mind you, I've never been unfriendly or anti-social, but admittedly I've never had a true "best friend" until now. And the fact that it's someone as intelligent, hardworking, and passionate as Hermione—well, how can I not be a grinning fool about it?

It's barmy, really. I've only known the girl for four months—and only considered her a friend for the past two. Isn't it much too soon to feel so attached to her? In the end though, I decide I don't care if she's been my friend for two months or two minutes: with Hermione, I feel safe. After all the time we've spent together over the past several weeks—whether it is during lunch or free time, at the park on weekends, or even through friendly glances during class—she has come to know me well, and I know her too. I know she'll look over my assignments to correct any errors before I turn them in. I know that she's not interested in sports, but is always up for discussing it when I want to. I know that when she's particularly deep in thought she bites her lips and closes her eyes. It's fascinating.

"Oh, _I_ know why, Fred," George answers before I can even react. "It's because our little Ron is in the process of romancing a girl. Apparently successfully, too. There must be something wrong with her."

"How do you know about Hermione?" I ask, only to immediately kick myself at the realization I gave the twins exactly what they wanted.

"Ah, so it _is_ a girl!" says Fred. "Good observation, George. We'll definitely utilize your scrutiny skills when we go into business together."

"Nothing to it, Fred," the twin replies before returning his attention to me. "And for your information, Ronald, it is common knowledge around this household at this point. You don't think we haven't noticed that it takes you an extra fifteen minutes to make it home these past few weeks, because you're allowing extra time to walk a certain bushy-haired girl home?"

"She only lives a little farther away," I defend, feeling my face turn into a tomato. "It's the polite thing to do, innit? Isn't that what Mum told us once: that if you have a—er, a female companion, you should make sure she gets home safely because girls are more susceptible to—I dunno, be harassed and whatnot? And what are you doing spying on me anyway?"

"There's this new invention called windows, mate, and we're all free to look out of them; it's hardly spying. We've all noticed you walking right past our house with her. You're lucky Ginny has taken such an interest in after-school football and that Dad is willing to pick her up afterward, or I'm afraid you'd have our dear little sister as a walking-home companion too. And that wouldn't be very romantic, now would it Fred?"

"Not at all, George. Ginny'd probably attempt to talk some sense into the poor girl."

"Shut up," I grumble.

"Or what, you'll tell Mum?" Fred continues. "Speaking of Mum, she only hasn't mentioned your little girlfriend yet because she doesn't want to embarrass you—but do tell us, when _are_ you going to bring the lovely lady around?"

"Never if you are going to act like that," I spit. "Do you prats really think it's impossible for a girl and a boy to be friends without there being something more to it?"

"Impossible? No," George answers, "but that doesn't negate the fact that it _does_ happen a lot. Especially if the particular boy and girl meet young. It'll start all kiddie and friendly, but you watch little brother, if you two stay friends and start to grow up together, you'll begin to notice the—" he pauses to share a suggestive grin with his twin brother, "— _differences_ between yourself and your friend of the opposite sex. And you'll find that you appreciate these differences much more than any mere 'friend' should."

"Sod off," I bark, tossing my balled up napkin at George; it misses by a good few inches and lands on the other end of the table, to which the twins guffaw as if it's the funniest thing they've ever seen in their lives.

"That was _pathetic_ , little brother!" Fred declares. "And that's surprising considering you're usually pretty good at throwing napkin shots. What's wrong, your girlfriend got you so preoccupied that you can't think to throw straight?"

I don't respond, but instead reach across the table to grab my used napkin. I throw it into the kitchen rubbish bin and stomp out of the room as the twins continue to chuckle incurably.

"Christmas is in a couple of weeks," Fred shouts after me. "Don't forget to get her something nice!"

I love them, but they're prats—they _really_ are insufferable prats... Still, their behavior doesn't stop me from stomping straight up to my room, where I promptly spill the contents of my piggy bank onto my bed, setting aside a considerable amount to spend on a certain bushy-haired girl's Christmas gift.

* * *

"Hey Herms."

"Herms?" she wonders out loud, glancing over at me with a raised brow.

"What?" I ask with a light laugh. I promptly set my book bag on the table with a _thump_ perhaps a notch louder than appropriate for a library, earning me a scolding glare from my dear friend. Luckily the place isn't too full this time of day, especially with it being so close to Christmas, so she keeps it to a brief eye roll of disapproval instead of proceeding to give me her How Not to Behave in a Library lecture. "I've known you long enough to give you a nickname, haven't I?"

"Hmm, all right then," she smirks as I make myself comfortable next to her. "Well, for your information, you happen to be late, _Ronnie_." My face contorts as if she's stabbed me.

"Okay, never mind. No nicknames… and I'm only five minutes late, for _your_ information."

"Five minutes late is five minutes you could have used to study, which could very well contribute to a higher chance of you scoring well on the final exams before the holiday, which you should know accounts for a significant percentage of our final mark. Now," she pulls out a paper from the back of her textbook, "did you review last week's study sheet like I suggested?"

"Yes," I say with confidence, "and I feel rather good about it."

"Let's see then."

The next half hour is spent reviewing facts for maths, and she seems impressed by the speed of my mental multiplication and division. I'm even not so rubbish with fractions, although the whole conversion processes are tedious beyond belief.

"That was a very productive study session, Ron," she praises as I walk her home some time later. "I have a feeling we'll both do very well!"

"Naturally," I agree, "how could I dream of passing without the help of the Almighty Hermione Granger?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it, you… you silly-face!"

" _Silly-face?_ " I repeat with a boisterous guffaw. "Come on Granger, you can do better than that."

"Fine, just give me time to think of something better, _Ronnie_."

"No fair, we agreed on no nicknames!"

"I don't recall agreeing to anything, Ronnie. Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie," she chants like a song.

"Whatever you say... _Mione_."

"Okay," she gives up, making a face. "No nicknames. Agreed?"

"Agreed," I breathe with another chuckle. "Although, to be honest, I wasn't really going to give you one to begin with. I… I like your name too much to call you anything else," I end with a blush that I pray she doesn't notice.

"Really?" she asks. Her tone is distinctly soft, like she's thoroughly surprised.

"Yeah," I shrug. "I mean, it's not every day you meet someone named Hermione, right? It's a unique name. It suits you."

"Oh," she blushes. "Thank you, Ron."

By the time I see her off, I can't help but admit that my head is sort of fuzzy with thoughts of her. Hermione, she's just so… pleasant to be around. I've never been struck with such admiration for someone as I am with her. Instead of taking my usual route home, however, I head to the nearest bus stop, stopping to check in my bag to ensure my black Velcro wallet is still there.

* * *

I scout the department store for what feels like hours. The stares of semi-concerned adults burn into the back of my skull as I walk past them in the aisles. Only a part of me is annoyed: it _is_ an oddity, I suppose, to see a ten-year-old boy shopping by himself. A few little old ladies even ask me if I'm lost, to which I reply no, I'm shopping, thank you very much.

I pass the toy section and stare at the aisles of pink-clad, frilly-dressed, glamorous dolls. Would Hermione like a doll? Do eleven-year-old girls even play with dolls? I frown and shake my head, ultimately deciding against it. It's funny, sometimes I forget that Hermione is actually older than me, and even though it's hardly a significant difference—six months—I can't help but feel like she's a grown woman compared to me.

I enter the jewelry section and start rotating a necklace display. From simple chains hang a variety of plastic and metallic pendants: hearts, stars, apples and strawberries, a boy and a girl holding hands, a witch's hat, a tiger, a snake, a fox, a doe, and—when I see it, I immediately know I need look no further. It's not fancy; it's not expensive—but it's perfect. I place it on the glass counter without even looking at the price, firmly and confidently declaring to the middle-aged woman with red horn-rimmed spectacles that this is what I'm buying.

"That'll be five pounds, young man," she states, quirking an eyebrow suspiciously. Her expression softens only when I produce the adequate amount of money from my wallet and hand it to her. She places the item in a white cardboard jewelry box before she bags it and hands it to me with a smile. "Is this for someone special?"

"Yes," I beam back at her, "my best friend."

* * *

When I hand Hermione the small, wrapped box on the final Friday before the winter holiday, her smile is bigger than I've ever seen it. We're standing in front of her house, and even though the winter air is quite cold and crisp, I feel warm in her company.

"What is it?" she inquires.

"If I told you, it wouldn't be much of a Christmas gift, now would it?"

"I suppose you're right."

"I have my moments."

She bites her lip. "I… I got you something too," she says softly, and a second later she's reached into her bag and pulled out a decoratively wrapped, medium-sized package. "I hope you like it—it's a box of French madeleine cakes. I know you're fond of sweets and they're really good. I'm sorry, I know you just told me it spoils a Christmas gift if the giver tells you what it is, but I wanted to tell you since it's food and food is perishable; they're wrapped now so it'll be okay for a while, obviously, but after you open them make sure you put the top back on it when you're done to preserve the freshness—"

" _Hermione_ ," I stop her, "you got me food—a dessert at that; I love it already. Thank you. Thank you so much." And I wrap my arms around her tiny shoulders, grinning as I feel her hug me back. She pulls away to give me that bright smile that I've become rather fond of. "So… I'll see you after break, yeah?"

"Of course," she softly confirms, and her eyes flicker downward. "After break."

"Hermione?" I read her like one of the open books that are almost always in her lap, and I instantly sense that something is troubling her. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she says too quickly. "N-Nothing at all." She bites her lip harder than she normally would, like she's holding something back.

"Are you sure?" I press.

"Y-Yeah." She finally backs away from me, heading toward the stairs that lead to the front door of her home. "I'll see you soon, Ron. Thank you. Happy Christmas."

I watch as she unlocks and opens the front door, turning a final time to wave me goodbye before she closes it behind her—and although her face is much farther away, I swear I can see her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

* * *

She's wearing it the first day after holiday. The sight alone makes me happy to be back at school.

"I love it, Ron," she says, playing with the necklace. From the gold chain hangs a little dog with white fur and brown patches over its eyes and ears. "You really remembered that one time I told you Jack Russells are my favorite animal?"

"What are friends for?" I beam back at her. "I saw all kinds of different pendants on the rack, but I knew you'd like that one the most. Thank you again for the cakes, by the way—they really were delicious. Although I'm afraid they didn't last long at all; you know how I eat."

She playfully rolls her eyes and looks down at the creature hanging from her neck, but when her gaze goes back to me, I see it again: that same melancholy air dancing on her tiny features, the slightest trace of ingenuity behind her smile.

"Hermione…?" I begin to ask her, again, what is wrong. But then I notice the slightest quiver of her lips and an uncomfortable shift in her posture, and I stop. Whatever is troubling her, I know she'll come to tell me when she is ready—and I'll be there waiting and ready to provide a shoulder for her to cry on if necessary. _That's_ what friends are for.

The rest of the term passes uneventfully, and I don't notice that look on her face again. My eleventh birthday is celebrated on the first day of March with a modest party at the Weasley home, where Hermione meets my family for the first time. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been nervous to bring her around, not only because of my brothers' previous teasing, but because—well—while my home isn't _nothing_ to look it, it isn't _much_ to look at either. The Weasley burrow is far from a mansion. But, surprisingly, the twins kept the joking to a minimum, and Hermione couldn't have been happier to be in my home, embraced by my family. And I realize that I think of her as family too. I invite her over all the time after that.

Before either of us can even come to terms with it, the final exams have been graded, the goodbyes said between emotional classmates, phone numbers and addresses exchanged on scraps of paper, and I'm walking her home for the last time of the school year.

"Ron?" she asks suddenly, before I can even turn to give her my parting words. "It's just occurred to me—you've never been in my house… or even met my parents. And that certainly doesn't seem right considering I've met yours, right? Would… would you like to come in for a bit?"

"Oh," I feel my hands go clammy. "I'd love to, Hermione. If that's okay with you."

"Of course it is. Why would I offer if it wasn't?"

"Right, of course," I chuckle, rocking nervously on my heels. I awkwardly motion to the grand white mahogany door of her house; the same door I've seen over a hundred times but have never actually stepped past. "Shall we, then?"

I follow her into her home and feel like I'm stepping onto an entirely different planet. It's scary but exciting; new but strangely familiar at the same time—perhaps because I'm with Hermione, and the house reminds me of her in its prim and polished appearance. There are beautifully decorated white walls with equally beautiful dark hard-wood floors. She leads me into the sitting room, where two adults are sitting before a grand fireplace on a pale, flower-patterned couch; there's a tea tray on the glass coffee table in front of them. They turn as soon as we enter the room, and I instantly perceive their daughter in both of them. Mrs. Granger's hair—very dark brown, almost black—is pulled back in a smoothly shaped, elegant bun; when she smiles, it's Hermione's smile, the same brightness and warmth—albeit she possesses much smaller teeth than that of her daughter. Mr. Granger's features are the masculinized version of Hermione's, and his hair is only a couple shades lighter than his daughter's. Whomever Hermione inherited her gravity-defying hair from, however, is not apparent in either of them.

"Mum, Dad," Hermione begins, "this is my friend, Ronald Weasley. Ronald, Mr. and Mrs. Granger."

"Nice to meet you," I greet in the most proper tone I can muster; it's strange and foreign.

"Well, well, well," Mrs. Granger begins in a pleasant, cool voice. Her and Mr. Granger stand at the same time and walk over to us. "This is the boy who's been walking you home all year, Hermione?"

" _Mum_."

"Now, now, dear," Mr. Granger says in a devilishly charming upper class accent. "Let's not scare away the boy just yet. Ron—may I call you Ron?" he asks with a polite smile, and I nod silently. Mr. Granger takes my hand and gives me a firm shake. "It's good to finally meet you. You're all Hermione has been talking about for some time."

" _Dad._ "

"My ears _have_ been burning rather intensely lately," I joke; the Grangers laugh, and Hermione stews.

"In all honesty though, Ron," Mrs. Granger begins, taking my hand out of her husband's and replacing it with her softer grasp, "it is a pleasure to meet you. We are very glad Hermione has found a friend who makes her this happy."

"Mum, would it be all right if Ron stayed for dinner?"

"W-What?" I trip over my own words. "Oh, Hermione, that's very nice of you, but—"

"No, I insist!" Mrs. Granger interrupts. "Ron, I'm making a crown roast of lamb, Hermione's favorite, to celebrate her completion of primary school. There's no way we'll be able to eat all that meat ourselves—and Hermione tells us you have a very healthy appetite. Please say you'll help us out."

"Oh, well," I say shyly. "All right, thank you, Mrs. Granger. But do you mind if I use your phone? I'll need to tell my parents I'll be late."

"Of course," Mrs. Granger nods, "and we'll give you a ride home afterward, dear. Hermione," she turns to her daughter, "come and help me cut up some vegetables for dinner while your father leads Ron to the house phone."

"Okay, Mum."

I'm so overwhelmed by the kindness of the Grangers and the intimacy of being in her home that I hardly register the feeling of Mr. Granger's large hand on my shoulder, leading me to a small table in the expansive hallway where a simple silver landline sits, large and important looking.

"I'll leave you to it," Mr. Granger smiles. "Come back in the sitting room when you're done; there's tea and biscuits. Oh, and Ron," he turns back to address me once again, "that necklace you got my daughter for Christmas? She's barely taken it off since she opened it. I swear I've seen her wear it to bed too."

I don't know what to say, but my initial lack of response doesn't impede the blood rushing to my cheeks and ears. "Yeah, I thought she'd like it."

"She does." Mr. Granger grins handsomely at me, revealing a perfect set of white teeth, before turning to walk back into the sitting room.

* * *

"Everything all right, Ron?" Hermione asks when she returns from the kitchen. For the past twenty minutes or so, I had been making comfortable conversation with her father about both he and Mrs. Granger's dentistry professions while sipping tea and chewing biscuits as daintily and politely as I could. "Are your parents okay with you staying for a while?"

"Yeah, thanks again, Hermione."

"Cool," she smiles. "Dad, do you mind if I steal Ron for a bit?"

"Go right ahead," Mr. Granger replies. "In fact, I was going to go help your mother with dinner. We'll call you two when it's ready."

"Thanks, Dad. Follow me, Ron. We can hang out in my room."

"Oh my," I joke as she leads me up the light carpeted stairs. "Am I finally going to see your book collection? Or do you have a separate room for that?"

"Shush, you! I'll have you know," she stops in front of another white door, pressing her back against it with a mischievous grin, "that Hermione Jean Granger has a very normal little girl's room indeed." And she opens it to reveal a lovely beige-carpeted, pale blue painted dwelling. There _is_ a large bookshelf, as I expected, as well as a dresser, a light turquoise armchair, an impeccably made twin bed, and an antique white writing desk with a wheeled, padded office chair in front of a window that allows a full view of the Grangers' expansive backyard. It's plain, practical, simple—and so utterly Hermione.

"Wow," I look around, "it's— _neat_."

"Neat as in clean, or neat as in interesting?"

"Both."

"Thank you. I try," she shrugs. "I shudder to think about what your room looks like since the last time I helped you clean it."

"Oi!" I object as I burst into laughter along with her. "I only have a _small_ colony of rats living under my bed, thank you very much!"

"Gross," she wrinkles her nose in exaggerated disgust, then sighs. "I'm going to miss it, Ron."

"The rat colony living under my bed?"

"No, you git!" she playfully punches my arm. "Hanging out with you during lunch, doing our homework together, walking home together. This school year went by too fast. We were in school together for _years_ beforehand, but only now, in our last year, did we end up with a class together. I've only got to know you for _a year_. It doesn't seem fair."

"I know. But now with us heading to secondary school, we'll have more time and independence. Just watch. We'll be the ultimate partners in crime." I meet her gaze only to feel my heart drop: there's that look again, the undeniable sadness behind her eyes, and this time she's not even trying to hide it behind a false smile. "Hermione, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong."

"No, something bloody well _is_ wrong!"

" _Ronald!_ " she scolds me; my formal name is reserved almost exclusively for her scolding these days. "Watch your language, I don't want my parents to hear—"

"Then tell me what's wrong!" I take a step closer, placing my hands on her shoulders. "You've been acting strange since I said goodbye to you for the winter holiday!"

"I… I haven't." She shakes her head; her lips are quivering.

"Yes, you have," I soften my tone, grabbing her hand as I guide her to sit next to me on top of the lilac comforter of her bed. "Please tell me. I… I don't like seeing you like this. I want to help."

She sighs heavily. "But that's the thing," her façade finally begins to crumble. "You c-can't."

"Well, how can you know that if you haven't even told me what it is?"

"Because I know everything, remember?" She offers a humorless chuckle followed by a sad smile.

"Hermione," I persist, my voice deeper and more intense than any eleven-year-old boy's voice should ever be, "I'm not going to bother you about it if you really don't want to tell me, but—you'd feel better if you did, I promise. My mother always told me that if you keep something bottled in, eventually you'll explode. And with you being my best friend and all, I'd be very upset if I had to pick up bits of your body. I can't imagine your parents would be very happy either."

She laughs, and this time it's genuine. Progress.

"It's just that…" she says, "it's you."

"Me?"

"It's you that's the problem."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"Yes," she sighs again, "you became my friend."

"I—what? I'm confused, Hermione. You know I hate it when you purposefully confuse me."

"There's a reason I never really cared about making friends this year," she continues, ignoring my second attempt at humor. "Not that I ever really had friends to begin with. I've been sitting alone at lunch since day one, haven't I? But this was the year I chose to stop trying... because I found out, only a couple weeks into this year of school—on my eleventh birthday, to be exact—that in a while it wouldn't even matter; in a while I'd probably never see these people again."

"You lost me, Hermione."

"Ron," she speaks so softly I almost don't hear, and when she looks up at me, the tears are finally coming down her face: silent but steadily flowing. The skin around her eyes are all puffed up; for once it's _her_ face that's beet red, instead of mine. "I could never, _ever_ regret the time I've shared with you, but the reality is we shouldn't have become friends. Because after this year, I'll be gone."

"What are you talking about?" I'm too worried and, frankly, _frightened_ about what she's saying to try to make her laugh now. "You're not making any sense. Are you saying you're moving?"

"Yes and no," she explains, and tears fall onto her lips as she does so. "My primary residence will still be here, but… I'm not going to the same secondary school as you and the rest of our class. I'm going to a—a boarding school. In Scotland."

"Wow." I blink several times, taking it in. "It's for the super brilliant kids, innit?"

"You could say that."

"Well, Hermione," I sigh, "I won't lie and say I'm not devastated that we won't be going to school together anymore. I'm going to miss seeing you every day, but it's brilliant that you'll be going somewhere where you can really show off that big brain of yours! It'll give us normal kids a chance to be considered above average for once." She laughs again, but the tears don't stop.

"But that's what's hard for me to accept. You're the first real friend I've had, Ron—and I've only gotten to have my first true friend for one school year! And now I'll have to start all over, a whole new crowd, and I doubt I'll find someone else as kind as you to see past my bossy voice and know-it-all answers and befriend me. It's just not going to happen, and once again I'm going to be the nightmarish know-it-all with no friends."

It stings to hear her quote the insult I made toward her so long ago. I still feel like a prat for saying it, although I've done everything to make her know I didn't mean it.

"Don't say that, Hermione. You're brilliant—amazing, really, and if other people are too dense to see that, that's their loss. People should be lining up to be friends with you! If it makes you feel any better, you can still call me anytime—"

"I can't," she says, shaking her head; some tears fly with the movement. "They don't allow phone communication. It's… er, it's a strict school."

"Can you write to me?"

"No. Not directly to your address, at least. At most I could have my parents deliver my letters to you, _and_ you'd have to give your responses to my parents for them to deliver from our address. The school has… a selective postal system, you could say."

"Hermione, are you going to a school or a prison?"

"A school," she says flatly. "I wish you could come with me. I'd give anything for you to be able to come with me, actually."

"I'm not as smart as you."

"I really wish you'd stop saying that, Ronald," she says sharply. "You devalue yourself so much. You're plenty smart. All right, your study skills need more discipline, but there's more to being smart than memorizing words in a book, and if you ask me, you've got more instinctive intelligence than anything. You observe, you mentally note, you strategize—you trust your gut. I bet there's plenty of areas where you're just as good—if not better—than me. I know you let me win that game of chess when I came to your house for your birthday. So stop saying you're not smart, even if it's in comparison to me or Albert bloody Einstein—stop saying you're not smart, because you bloody well are, Ronald Weasley!" She finishes with a dramatic huff, and I'm so stunned by her words that I don't even think to tease her for breaking her own "watch the language" rule and cursing not once, but _twice_ in one outburst.

"Woah," I breathe. "Hermione, I—"

"Don't say anything about what I just said," she huffs again. "I… I just want to enjoy my time with you while I have it, all right? Please?"

"Okay." I reach out and place a comforting hand on her shoulder: it's something I've done several times before, but this time the touch is decidedly more meaningful. She really is my best friend. "I know you don't want to talk about going away either but… I want to remind you, you'll come home for the holidays and during the summer, right?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, there you have it. Even if we're not going to the same school anymore, you'll still be around, and so will I. Okay?"

She's looking at me now: that same intense, brown stare she gave me when we first started talking that day in the dining hall. Her eyes are _so_ dark; I feel I'll be consumed in their abyss. Finally, she gives a genuine smile, and the tears cease.

"Okay, Ron." Her hand travels up to her Jack Russell pendant, which she lovingly plays with. "I'll think of this as carrying a little piece of you."

"A piece of me?" I gasp. "That sounds a little morbid doesn't it, Granger? I like having all my body parts intact!"

"Ugh, you're impossible!" She punches my arm again, to which I feign a groan of pain. We laugh for a moment before falling into a peaceful silence. See, it's moments like these that really assure me that the friendship I share with Hermione Granger is something very special; something pure and something to be treasured: the fact that we can sit there, for hours at a time if we so desire, not saying a word, and just appreciating each other's presence. It's rare to find such a connection between people, especially at our age; I know this, and I intend to hold onto it forever… Blimey, this girl has already turned me into a philosophy-spewing nutter. Not that I'm complaining, mind you.

"Ron! Hermione!" Mr. Granger's voice sounds from downstairs some time later. "Dinner, you two!"

"Coming!" Hermione calls back, rising to her feet; I follow suit. She turns her attention back to me. "Ron? When we go downstairs and talk to my parents, can we please not mention the breakdown I had?"

"I wasn't even thinking of it, Hermione. I know I'm a prat, but even _I_ wouldn't do that."

"Good," she says, and the perk is back in her voice. I _love_ her perk, her passion; even if it is often directed toward discussions of nineteenth century English literature, or the social-dynamic implications of Shakespeare, or the proper method in which to open a new book in order to preserve the spine and maximize its shelf life, or some other topic that I normally wouldn't give a rat's hat about.

It's strange, I think to myself as we walk downstairs, because I _hate_ to see her sad, but the fact that she was finally able to tear down her walls and cry in front me, to expose herself to me in such a vulnerable, emotional state—it's touching. She trusts me. And more specifically, she trusts me with her feelings, which is more valuable than any book, madeleine cake, or homework advice she could ever possibly give me.

* * *

When she writes to me, it's good; but when she sees me, it's better. I visit her the last day of August, every year, to wish her goodbye. Her parents deliver her letters to me on a weekly basis, and I give them my replies to mail the same day. She tells me of many things: rigorous classes she is taking and excelling in, a mean-spirited blonde boy who makes fun of her, a nice bloke she befriends named Harry, a grand ball where a foreign exchange student asks her to be his date, and how she misses me to pieces and can't wait to see me the second she returns. I write her back with tales of Fred and George's mischievous acts of defiance toward the school system, my acceptance onto the football team, and Ginny's budding romantic life.

And then she's home for those two wonderful weeks for the winter holiday, during which we spend nearly every moment together at one or the other's home. We even spend the night—either with Hermione in the extra bed in Ginny's room (with whom Hermione has also extended her friendship), or with myself in the guest bedroom at the Grangers'. It's a ritual at this point; a beloved tradition of Weasley-Granger interaction.

The years pass in this fashion, and—as I begrudgingly admit to himself—I _do_ start to notice my best friend make a dramatic transformation from girl-child to young woman (as dear old Gred and Forge indeed predicted), while I myself awkwardly stumble into manhood. Gone are my days of unsightly lankiness: while I'm still not exactly the most graceful bloke in the room, I _have_ grown into my body a bit more, the muscles of my arms, legs, and chest defined from years on the school football team, as well as recreational games with my siblings in the backyard. By the time I hit my mid-teens, I stand at nearly six feet. Admittedly, I still have a bit of lank—although at this point it's less awkward-growing-boy lank and more an-inherent-feature-of-Ronald-Weasley lank. My hands and feet are also a tad too big for my liking, but when I look in the mirror at the same ginger hair, long nose, bright blue eyes framed by golden lashes, and pale, freckled complexion I've known my whole life, I see what—just _maybe_ —could be deemed a handsome young man.

Contrastingly, Hermione gracefully floats into her own physical maturity—or at least that's what I see; she insists she had her awkward moments as well and that I was simply not around to witness them. On her fourth summer home from boarding school, I instantly take notice to the dramatic reduction of her teeth: the oversized beaver smile I've come to know and love is now a row of perfect, small, straight pearly whites. When questioned, Hermione insists that her parents—having the special connections that dentists have—sent her to an advanced orthodontist who was able to give her an accelerated treatment to fix her bite. To this day I'm still a little incredulous, but I leave the matter alone. In her young womanhood, she stands just below average height for a girl, with a— _ahem_ —a modest bust and slender legs. Her hair is as bushy and glorious as ever, now falling close to the small of her back: a grand headdress of natural brown curls. She speaks like a woman who has graduated from both medical and law school, so cultured and smooth. I _love_ hearing her say my name, whether I've earned a scolding "Ron- _ald_ " or her usual monosyllabic reference to me as "Ron"; there's something about the way her accent dances on top of the letters that sends shivers down my spine and makes my heart beat uncomfortably fast.

But of course I'll never tell her that.

Christmas in 1995 finds Hermione at my home while her parents are away at an international dental conference in Spain. Fred and George have placed at least two dozen mistletoe around the house, and when Hermione and I inevitably get caught under one—on Christmas Day, while I'm waiting under the archway of the sitting room to hand her my present, no less—she plants the faintest kiss on my cheek, and I just about die right there. And the next day, when she's helping me clear the table after breakfast, I smell it—a distinct, pungent air of exotic citrus.

"You're… you're wearing it?"

"What?" she turns to look at me, a stack of dirty dishes in her arms. "Oh… the perfume you got me? Of course I'm wearing it. It's unusual, but I really like it." She turns to place the dishes in the sink to soak—and it's only as I stand there, flabbergasted, watching the way she sweeps her hair behind her shoulders, and the way she wiggles her bum ever so slightly as she washes the dishes, humming to herself, that I start to realize I'm falling in love with my best friend.

Damn Fred and George.

* * *

"Did anything ever happen with you and that girl?"

It's a late summer day in 1996, and we're two sixteen-year-olds sprawled out on an old blanket in her backyard, watching as the setting sun makes the sky burst with brilliant shades of pink and orange. She's leaving for school tomorrow, and, as I always do on our last day together, I'm taking the time to memorize every detail of her face as it currently is. The light freckles dotted along her nose and cheeks, the natural pink tinge to her lips, the way that one curl simply won't stay off her face, even with the utilization of a headband—it's all so mesmerizing. Then there's her movements too, little actions I've been watching since the day I befriended her, and appreciate more and more each time I witness them: the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathes deeply, savoring the peacefulness of the moment, or the way her eyes flutter when she smiles.

"Ron?" she pulls me from my trance.

"Sorry, what'd you say?"

"That girl you once wrote to me about. Lavender, I think you said her name was. Did anything ever happen with her?"

"Oh," I prop myself up on my elbow and gaze down at her. "No—well, not really. _She_ wanted something to happen for sure... and, yeah, I guess she was pretty and all that, but… I wasn't really feeling it."

"Oh? And what exactly _do_ you 'feel', Ron Weasley?" she teases.

 _You. Or at least I want to._

"I dunno." I plop back onto the blanket, considering her question. "To be honest, I was really surprised she expressed an interest in me to begin with."

"Why would you be?"

"Well—look at me, Hermione," I say plainly, motioning to myself. "I'm not exactly the movie star type."

She rolls her eyes. "There you go again Ron, devaluing yourself. For your information, I think you're very handsome, and smart, and kind, and funny—frankly I don't see how a girl _couldn't_ fancy you... Unless of course she wasn't attracted to men, or already in a relationship, or otherwise not interested or available to pursue—"

"I get it." We laugh for a moment. "You really think that, Hermione?" I ask the question slowly, trying to drill in the fact that, if she confirms her previous statement, she is inherently implicating _herself_ in the group of girls who, as she claims, would be attracted to me…

"Yes," she says firmly, and my heart does a somersault. My eyes scan her face, looking for something—a hint perhaps, or a sort of unspoken permission. It would be _so_ easy to kiss her right now. My sight drifts further south, past the tempting swell of her chest, to where the hem of her shirt is riding up ever so slightly, exposing a creamy, flat stomach.

"Well you know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think it's Tickle Time!" And before she can react, I roll over onto my knees, hovering over her, and immediately attack her with merciless jabbing tickles to the stomach. Hermione writhes uncontrollably beneath me, squirming in futile attempts to relieve herself of my assault. She's choking and laughing and crying all at once, squealing a few choice obscenities that I'll certainly have to remember to tease her about later. Hermione "watch your language" Granger, my arse.

" _Ronald_ — _Bilius_ — _Weasley!_ " she hisses through a snort. "Stop—it—right—now!"

"What? I'm sorry, I can't hear you!" My hands drift upward to pay attention to her underarms and neck. She defensively scrunches her shoulders, but only falls into another trap as my fingers reach behind her ears, and she's shaking so violently an onlooker might think she's having a seizure.

"I'm—going—to—kill—you!" Another loud ugly snort as I hit a particularly sensitive spot.

"What's wrong, Granger? Smart girl like you can't find your way out of my clutches? What a shame." My hands descend to her stomach once more, where I complete my attack with another solid minute of relentless tickles. Finally, only when my own fingers are sore, I cease, sitting back on my knees to observe the post-tickling Hermione.

Her skin is flushed and blotchy from where my fingers jabbed her most intensely, her chest rapidly falling up and down as she attempts to catch her breath. The faintest sheen of sweat covers her small forehead, and her mane is sprawled out on the cover like a kid making a snow-angel. On her face is the goofiest, most un-Hermione like grin I've ever seen on her, all big and dopey. Her eyes are closed, and she looks positively drunk with happiness. She's brilliant.

"After today I never want to see you again, Ronald Weasley," she declares through more ragged breathing. "Gods, you're such an insensitive prat."

I lean down next to her again, basking in her dewy brilliance. Feeling bold, I extend a hand to her shirt and pull it down, covering her tickle-ravaged stomach. My hand lingers there, finding the indentation of her navel and tracing circles around it. She doesn't stop me. It's weird, because I've hugged Hermione _many_ times, had my arms around her _many_ times, and she's even kissed my cheek on several occasions since the first time last Christmas, but _this_ —the act of tracing shapes on her shirt-covered belly—is somehow the closest I've ever felt with her. She's still breathing like a madwoman.

"I hate you," she states with another beaming smile. I nudge my face the slightest bit closer to hers, close enough that I know she'll feel my breath on her cheek.

"I hate you too." She chuckles, knowing we both mean the exact opposite.

* * *

The summer preceding her final year at boarding school is an especially exciting one, for my oldest brother is getting married—and _of course_ she's invited to the wedding, and _of course_ she's going with me as my friend, my companion… my date.

A wedding, it's brilliant—a ray of happiness and hope in a world that has otherwise been rather horrible this past year. Bridges mysteriously collapsing, killing dozens and injuring many more; people randomly disappearing (I've never seen so many missing persons reports on the news as I have in the past year alone), the smiling faces of innocent people lost to the world. The most jarring event that had occurred so far, however, was the murder of a family just two neighborhoods away—or at least, everyone was assuming it was a murder, but no one had the slightest clue how it could be. The family of four (mother, father, and two babies) were found dead in the sitting room, their bodies strung about on the floor like rag dolls. There was no sign of forced entry, no stab wounds, no gunshot holes, no traces of poison in the victims' systems. It was as if they had _literally_ dropped dead. Mum was particularly disturbed by the report, checking the locks on the doors and windows over a dozen times before going to bed, and muttering under her breath about wanting to move abroad. We can't afford a security system.

I shake the thought from my head as I walk to Hermione's house. I'm not going to live my life in fear. A wedding is just what my family needs.

"Hi Mrs. Granger, Mr. Granger," I greet Hermione's parents cheerfully the second they open the door for me; even after all this time, I still maintain all respectful formalities in the presence of my best friend's parents, despite their insistence that I've known them long enough to refer to them by their first names. They smile and allow me entrance into their home. "Is Hermione upstairs?"

"Of course, Ron," Mrs. Granger nods. "She got home a few hours ago. She's got one of her friends from school with her too; I'm glad you'll finally get to meet him."

"Oh, cool," I reply. "Thank you." I pass them and make my way up the stairs. I've been to this house so many times, walked up these very stairs _so_ many times; it's my second home, in many ways. I walk down the hallway to the last door on the right: Hermione's room. It's closed (as I know she usually keeps it), and I extend a fist to knock politely before entering. But, before the skin of my knuckles can graze the white wood, I hear the unfamiliar voice of what I assume to be Hermione's aforementioned "friend from school".

 _"I know you don't want to do it, Hermione. But it's brilliant—_ you're _brilliant—and you're right, it's going to keep them safe."_

 _"I k-know, Harry,"_ Hermione's voice sputters in a hoarse whisper, and I don't need to see her face to know she's speaking through tears. _"It's—It's just so horrible, but I-I-I have to, Harry. They're killing Muggles for fun, like a sport! But with them being connected to me, and me being connected to you, t-they'll actually have a_ reason _to go after them! I-It's the only thing I can think of to… to protect them."_

 _"And I'll be right there when you do it, okay? We're in this together, Hermione."_

 _"I know, Harry. T-Thank you."_ There's a momentary pause in the conversation, and I hear her hiccupping through more tears. _"All we have to do now is wait for the Trace on you to break, and the wedding the next day—"_

 _"Ugh, Hermione,"_ the male voice groans, _"I know how close you are to this bloke, but is there really time to worry about a wedding? We should leave the moment it's safe."_

 _"It's one extra day, Harry. I promised him months ago. Besides, afterward he'll undoubtedly invite me into his house with the rest of his family, which will give me the opportunity to… you know."_

 _"Right, I see,"_ the male sighs. _"But Hermione, if you're going to do that, why does it matter if you go to the wedding at all?"_ There's another short pause; she's breathing heavily.

 _"Because I want to enjoy every last moment I have with him. Even if he won't remember it."_

Finally, I knock. Immediately, there are gasps from the other side of the door, and hushed words.

 _"Damn it! Hermione, we forgot to cast a silencing—"_

 _"Shut up, Harry! Do you want them to hear? Oh… er, come in Dad!"_

"It's not your dad," I say. "It's Ron."

Only a second passes before Hermione opens the door and looks up at me with dewy brown eyes. Her face is a cherry-red, puffy mess, her hair even more unruly than usual. Oh yes, she's definitely been crying.

"Hi," she breathes through a forced smile. "I didn't even hear the doorbell ring."

"Your parents saw me through the window; they opened the door before I could ring."

"Oh, right," her voice drops, and there is an awkward pause before Hermione seems to recollect her thoughts, her head snapping from me to the other boy in the room, sitting on her bed. "Ron," she begins again, taking me by the hand and leading me to the center of the room, "this is my friend from school, Harry Potter. Harry, this is Ronald Weasley."

"Ron, please," I smile, extending my hand. The boy rises from the bed and gives me a firm, friendly shake, allowing me to get a good look at him. Harry Potter stands a few inches below me, with a lean, muscled build. His face is round and boyish with flawless, rose-tinged white skin, with the exception of a faint, peculiarly shaped scar on his forehead, above his right eye. It sort of looks like a sideways "Z" or even... a lightning bolt. His untidy ebony hair falls just past his ears, messy fringe curtaining his face. Finally, behind a pair of black, round-rimmed glasses are the brightest and most hypnotizing emerald eyes I've ever seen. I can't help but feel the slightest jolt of jealousy—the boy _is_ good-looking, and he and Hermione appear to be quite close. If this is the same Harry I remember Hermione writing to me about years ago—well, why hasn't she mentioned him in any of her recent letters? Has their friendship become something more significant, and she's been holding off on telling me? I shake the speculation from my head: even if there is something going on between them, I have nothing to be concerned about, because Hermione is my best friend, and will always be my best friend. Right? Right. "It's good to meet you, Harry. Is that short for something?"

"No," Harry responds, smiling at me to reveal perfectly white, gleaming teeth. "People have tried to call me Harold or Harrison in the past but it's not me. I'm Harry; just Harry. It's good to meet you too, Ron. But given how much Hermione talks about you, I feel like we already know each other."

" _Harry_ ," Hermione scolds, cheeks flushing.

"Anyway—" Harry begins, but stops abruptly. His unspoken words hang awkwardly in air, and the three of us share another uncomfortable silence. I've _never_ had uncomfortable silences with Hermione, and now here comes this bloke ruining our balance and whatnot. I'm still deciding whether or not I like this Harry Potter—a decision that I know deep within the crevices of my heart hangs primarily on whether or not this Harry Potter is romantically involved with my best friend. "Er, Hermione," he breaks the silence at last, "why don't I go downstairs and help your parents with—uh, something, while you and Ron catch up?"

"Okay Harry," Hermione replies. The raven-haired boy smiles at Hermione and nods at me before walking past us and out of the room, leaving behind the faint pitter-patter of his feet walking steadily down the carpeted stairs.

"So, Hermione—"

"Let's go talk in the backyard," Hermione says. "It's… it's nice outside."

But the late June air is uncharacteristically dark, damp, and gloomy—much like the expression on her face.

* * *

"Hermione—" I try again the moment we are alone outside.

"Close your eyes," Hermione orders, and even though her voice is soft, there's a firmness underlying her words that doesn't make me question why. At this point I'd do a hundred bloody star jumps and run barefoot through a burning building for her if it meant getting answers. I tightly scrunch my eyes shut, and even cover my face with my hands and turn away from her for good measure.

"I can't see a bloody thing, Hermione."

"Good. Keep them closed until I say so." There's silence for a moment except for Hermione muttering some unintelligible words; I see nothing but the blackness of my eyelids. "Okay, you can open them now." I relieve my sight of the darkness and turn to look at her.

"Are you going to tell me what in the name of _bleeding Christ_ is going on, Hermione?" I spit.

"Oh, Ronald, please!" she cries. "Please don't curse at me like that. I can't take it, not now." And the tears come down her face in a violently heavy flow; she's shaking, her little body shuddering as each sob wracks through her. I feel like the biggest prat on the planet.

"Hermione, I'm so, _so_ sorry, love." I step forward and embrace her, crushing her delicate frame against my toned chest. I'm relieved to feel her hug me back, her slender arms tightening around my waist as she buries his face into my chest, dampening my shirt. I kiss the top of her mane, stroking her hair for comfort. "Please don't cry, Hermione. I don't want your parents to think—"

"They can't hear us," she blubbers, her words muffled against me, "Harry can't either."

"What do you mean?"

"I wish I could tell you."

"You can tell me _anything_ , Hermione. You know that."

"I do," she whispers, finally detaching herself just enough so they she can look me in the eyes. "But the problem is, it's not a matter of if I _want_ to tell you, it's that I'm legally bound not to."

"You sure have a way of successfully confusing me with one sentence, Hermione Granger."

She laughs—it's soft and weak, but a laugh nonetheless. "And you sure have a way of making me smile no matter how horrible I feel, Ron Weasley."

"Do you want to sit down?" I ask, motioning to one of the benches sitting on the manicured grass.

"No," she shakes her head. "I'd rather stand. It'll… it'll keep me grounded. There's so much for me to tell you… and so much I'm not supposed tell you either. I don't know where to begin. To start from the beginning would mean to start from the first time we starting talking that day in the dining hall. Before that, even."

"Then that's where we'll start."

"I _can't_ , Ron," she insists. "Even though I'm seventeen now and the Trace on me is broken—so in every theoretical sense I could show you and tell you everything without risk as long as you didn't tell, I… I can't risk putting you and your family in danger. It's still very illegal for me to tell you anything—the secrecy law would only make an exception if you were my husband, a father to my children, or an immediate family member. You're already in danger being friends with me as it is. If they were to find out—"

"Hermione, love!" I cup her face; it's so warm, damp, and puffy. "You've got to stop going off like this—I don't understand a thing. Start from the beginning. Whatever it is I promise I won't tell. You could tell me you committed a murder and I promise I won't tell."

"Don't say things like that, Ron. Please. I know you won't tell. The thing is… you wouldn't believe me even if I did tell you."

"Hermione," I begin softly, sliding my large hands down from her pretty face to her slender shoulders, squeezing slightly, "don't you know that after we've been friends for so long, you've got me? I'm done in, love. Off the rocker, over the hill, spilling marbles—tie me to a plank of wood and send me out to sea. You could tell me you're an effing alien-mermaid-princess right now and I'd bloody well believe you if you told me it's the truth. So tell me, Hermione, tell me. I promise I won't tell." And to show her I mean business, I hold up the little finger of my right hand. "Pinkie promise." We hadn't pinkie promised anything since we were thirteen: the time she came across a spider in my room, to which I screamed bloody murder. Not wanting to kill it, Hermione had utilized the capture-and-release method, and I made her promise she wouldn't mention my overreaction to Fred and George; the last thing those two needed were more reasons to tease me.

She smiles softly; the lips surrounding her perfect teeth are wet with tears.

"Pinkie promise." And she locks fingers with me for a solid minute. Suddenly, she's grinning madly. "It's funny you mention an alien-mermaid-princess," she chuckles, "Because what I'm going to tell you is even more unbelievable than that."

"Oh, I doubt that, Hermione. Try me."

"Remember," she sighs, backing away from me, "you promised you won't tell." Her voice and composure has its ground again, and she reaches into the pocket of her fitted jeans and pulls out the most peculiar looking… _stick..._ that I've ever seen. At least, "stick" _seems_ like the appropriate term to assign the thing, for it is clearly made of wood. It's a little less than a foot long, a very light golden brown with elegant carvings near the base, extending up the shaft. She holds it in her right hand very naturally, as if it's merely an extension of her own arm. Her other hand drifts up to the same gold-chained Jack Russell pendant necklace I gave her so many years ago; it's practically fused to her neck, she wears it so often. Playing with the little creature, she smiles weakly at me: "Remember how you got this for me because I once mentioned Jack Russell Terriers are my favorite breed of dog?"

"How could I forget?"

"Well, an interesting piece of trivia concerning the Jack Russell Terrier is that they are known to chase otters in the water." She pauses, waiting for me to respond.

"Er… okay?" I offer, confused. "Hermione, what does any of that have to do with—?"

"Just watch," she cuts me off, looking slightly amused. She steps back another foot, extends the strange stick in my direction, and closes her eyes.

"Hermione," I try. "What are you—?"

"Shh," she shakes her head, eyes remaining closed, "I need to concentrate." I stand there: silent, frigid, and—quite frankly—scared. " _Expecto Patronum_ ," Hermione breathes into the air; she flourishes the object, and suddenly there's a silver, wispy ghost-like otter bursting from the tip of the stick and bouncing around her.

" _What the—!?_ " But before I can produce an appropriate curse word to convey my shock, the ghost-otter-thing is bouncing around _me_ , floating in the air like its effortlessly swimming in some invisible stream.

"Don't be afraid, Ron. It's harmless. It's actually one of the most pure forms of magic there is."

I must be going mad. There is no possible way I heard her correctly.

"M-M—" I attempt to repeat. My ears are ringing, my body is humming, and there's a million things I want to say, but I can barely seem to say one—and the otter is still being friendly around my shoulders and chest. " _Magic?_ "

"Yes, Ron. Magic." She gives a less grand flourish of the wooden object and the otter suddenly evaporates into the air. "I know it's a lot to take in. Perhaps now we should sit down. Don't worry, no one will be able to hear or see us—I placed a simple concealment charm around the backyard; standard protection. That's why I asked you to close your eyes—I wanted a chance to talk to you before I exposed you to magic for the first time. Basic concealment charms are one of the first things I learned at Hogwarts, the boarding school I've been going to for the past six years. I'm sorry—I'm so, _so_ sorry, Ron. I've been lying to you for six years. I've had my parents lie to you for six years. But I had to. I had no choice. But now our world is going to hell and it's affecting yours too, and you deserve to know—"

"Easy, love, easy," I breathe, stepping forward to touch her again. My tone is comforting even though _I'm_ the one shaking. "Just… start from the beginning. The _very_ beginning."

* * *

Is it possible that everything is real? Like, literally everything; is nothing is really fantasy? Sasquatches, the Abominable Snowman, the tooth fairy, aliens—are they really all out there and just smart enough to conceal themselves from us ordinary folk? Do all the stories in those Disney princess movies that I used to watch with Ginny really happen? Are there really beasts that imprison beautiful women; genies in bottles; mermaids that collect human artefacts? Is every myth, legend, and fairy tale based on some undeniable reality that the majority of us have been blind to?

It must be, for that's the only thing that logically makes sense after the world Hermione just exposed to me several hours ago—a world that has existed right in front of me my entire life, very cleverly hidden. She's a witch. My Hermione is… a _witch_. A witch! A bloody wand-waving-broom-flying-potion-brewing-spell-casting-witch! Blimey. I toss and turn in my bed, eyes wide open, staring into the darkness—or is it really darkness? Are there actually millions of invisible night sprites hiding in my room, ready to tickle my toes when I fall asleep? I can't trust anything that seems even remotely within the realm of "normal" at this point.

"It started when I turned eleven," Hermione had begun after sitting me down on the bench in her backyard, "almost three weeks after school started—the year we became friends. I remember it like it was yesterday: I was working on my homework in my room when Mum came upstairs and said there was a visitor for me. She looked very… concerned. When I came down there was this woman: tall, elderly, stern-looking, but with kind eyes. She was wearing the most unusual clothes I had ever seen—they were _robes,_ long and flowing to the ground, like a monk. She introduced herself as Minerva McGonagall and said she was a teacher and representative for a very… special school. A school for kids like me. She asked if she could speak to my parents and I together, and then… that's when she told me."

"That you're a—a—" I could barely say the word, even though I knew what it was.

"Yes," Hermione had confirmed without saying it either. "Naturally, I was a bit incredulous at first, being the logical person you know I am," she smirked at me. "Witchcraft and wizardry and magical blood was the stuff of fairy tales, not something someone could actually be or possess. But then she asked me if there had ever been… _incidents_ , concerning me. Strange happenings that even I couldn't explain. I told her about the time a boy on the playground at school was making fun of me; I felt so _angry_ and suddenly—he was pushed back. But I didn't touch him! And another time when I was looking at a flower bud and it _bloomed_ , right there, as if my stare had caused it to do so! Even my parents had a story they never told me about when I was a baby: apparently they had taken me to a park and I was playing in a pile of leaves... and the leaves started changing color every time I touched them! They said they wrote it off as a freak thing—a very, _very_ freak thing."

"I heard those rumors at school," I had admitted, "about the boy and flower. But I couldn't believe…"

"Neither could I," she continued, shaking her head. "And then, the woman handed me my acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the primary establishment of magical education for young wizards and witches in Great Britain, and told me that I would be leaving for my first year the following September. So," she plopped her hands down on her lap and sighed, "I decided then that—that was it for me. I was going to stop beating myself up for not having friends. It was going to be my last year at a Muggle school, and then I would be with a whole new group of kids—kids that would like me because I was more like them. Or at least that's what I thought at the time. I quickly learned otherwise... I hadn't anticipated becoming friends with someone as wonderful as you, Ron—and when I did, it only made me afraid that I would never meet someone at Hogwarts that accepted me that way you did. I was excited to take my place in the wizarding world, but... at the same time, you alone made me sad that I was leaving." She stared at me fondly. "You almost made me want to stay in the Muggle world forever."

"Hermione, what's a… a Moo-gal?"

"A Muggle," she explained, "is a non-magical person. Someone without magical abilities; without magical blood."

"Like me."

"Right."

"Oh," I looked down at my hands—my large, calloused, freckled, non-magical hands—and then back into her beaming brown eyes, "so I'm not special like you?"

"It's not like that, Ron," she had explained, rubbing my shoulder comfortingly; her touch alone sent a bolt of lightning down my spine. "It's like the way some people are blonde and others are brunette, or how some people have attached earlobes and others have detached earlobes. It's just genetics. It doesn't mean one is more special than the other. Besides," she sighed, "even being magical doesn't always guarantee you acceptance in the wizarding world. Not when you're a Muggle-born—which is a witch or wizard born to Muggle parents," she added before I could ask.

"But… it doesn't make sense," I said (and only now, lying in my bed and recalling this impossible day in my head do I realize how barmy I sounded questioning the sense of a world where magic exists), "how can you be magical if neither of your parents are?"

"Muggle-borns are a bit of an oddity in that sense," she agreed. "We're not rare by modern wizarding standards, but an oddity nonetheless. The explanation lies in my distant ancestry. Somewhere down the line I am descended from a Squib—"

"What's a—?"

"—a non-magical person born to at least one magical parent," she went on. "They're essentially Muggles born to wizards: very rare, and _very_ discriminated against. Unlike regular Muggles, however, Squibs _do_ possess the magical gene and are able to pass it on genetically; it is just inactive in their system. So, as the story goes, a Squib—shamed and disconnected from their magical heritage—marries a Muggle and produces Muggle children, but for some reason, generations later, the active magical gene resurfaces. As is the case with me and all Muggle-borns. Interestingly enough though, once the magical gene _does_ show up again it's almost ubiquitously present in all of the following generations. So even if I were to—er, _reproduce_ with a… a Muggle," I noticed her eyes dart briefly to mine and she shifted uncomfortably, "it's still practically guaranteed that the resulting children would be magical… I've tried looking into my family tree to see which side of my family the Squib was on and who they could've been, but I've never gotten far. I suppose that doesn't really matter much though, does it?" It sounded like a rhetorical question; she looked up at me and smiled, "I am who I am either way, aren't I?"

"Yes, Hermione," I had said. I took her hand in mine and allowed the other one to snake up to her pretty face, cupping her cheek. Her eyes were dewy with unshed tears. I realized she must have been overwhelmed, but to see her smile when I gently stroked the skin beneath her eye meant the world to me. Witch, zombie, or alien-mermaid-princess, she was still my Hermione, and I wanted to let her know: "You are."

Several hours of surreal discussion passed before Hermione insisted that I go home and rest—because, blimey did I need it. I haven't taken in so much information in all of my years of school combined. I told Mum I wasn't feeling well and would prefer to skip dinner (" _You_ , skip dinner, Ronnie?" Fred sniggered, George chucking at his side. "You must be dying, then.") and immediately retreated to my room, not bothering to turn on the lights as I fell straight into bed, entangling myself in the covers. It was barely six in the afternoon but I felt like I'd been out for an eternity.

So now, here I am, exhausted but unable to sleep. Hermione told me I could come back tomorrow and she'd put more pieces of the puzzle together—but what I was working with now was more than enough. A madman looking to take over the world, sending his cronies to mindlessly kill non-magic folk like myself just for the fun of it (Christ, that family a couple neighborhoods over, were they… ?), discrimination against Muggle-borns (I wanted to punch this Malfoy bloke in the throat), and so much more unbelievable madness. Jesus tap dancing Christ.

I have so many questions— _so many questions_ —to ask when I see her tomorrow, I almost think to get up and write them down before my overwhelmed mind forgets all of them, but my legs refuse to move; my body is paralyzed, my mind numbing as it continues to absorb it all. I figure it's for the best anyway; I don't want to overwhelm Hermione either. Hermione, the beautiful, brilliant girl: a witch. A witch; my best friend. Bloody hell.

I continue on with this fragmented thought process for the next several hours, combing over every interaction I've ever shared with Hermione Granger, looking for signs of her magical abilities early on… Crikey, is that what drew me to her to begin with, that day in the dining hall? Did she cast some sort of spell on me, without even realizing it? I'm sure she didn't but, even if she did, I could never complain. I wouldn't give up her friendship for anything in the world.

Ending with this thought, my eyes start to droop, and I enter the most dream-ridden sleep I've ever experienced, filled with images of dragons, elves, and Hermione walking down an aisle in a wedding dress that changes colors with every step…

* * *

I knock on Hermione's door at half past eight the following morning. Yeah, I know that's a bit early for a visit—but it took me _hours_ of conscious procrastination just to stall my arrival by this much. My overactive mind had me awake, showered, dressed, and breakfasted at barely five in the morning, and believe me I would've ran to Hermione's house right then if I didn't preoccupy myself with shaving, brushing my teeth at least a dozen times, and tidying up my room. Finally, when I ran out of things to do, I left.

"I haven't seen you awake this early since school," Hermione comments as she lets me into the house. She's already dressed, the fabric of her faded denim hugging the curve of her slender thighs. She is also wearing a plain long-sleeved pink sweater. And, of course, her necklace. "My parents have already left for work. Harry's still asleep."

" _Oh_ ," I can't conceal the frown in my voice. "He spent the night?"

"In the _guest room_ , of course, Ronald," she emphasizes. "I wrote him a note. C'mon, it's nice outside, let's take a walk and then we'll chat. But first," she takes out her stick—uh, her _wand_ —and waves it in my direction, then at herself. A strange, silver mist, almost like a fog, is produced from the tip and falls over both of our heads. I _see_ it, but feel nothing. "Another simple concealment charm," she explains, "to ensure no Muggles hear things they shouldn't. Or anyone else, for that matter."

"Brilliant, you are."

"So I've been told."

We head outside and begin walking down the street, side by side. We don't seem to be following a particular path, though truthfully I'm just following Hermione: she turns a corner, I turn a corner; she goes straight, I go straight, and so on.

"So, Ron—"

"Mermaids," I say suddenly, unable to help myself. "Do you have mermaids?" I know we're magically protected, and the streets of our neighborhood are fairly bare this early in the morning anyway, but I speak in a hushed tone nonetheless. She blinks a few times in surprise at my abruptness, but breaks into an amused smile a moment later.

"Yes, Ron, mermaids exist," she confirms. "But… they're not like the ones in movies. At least not the ones native to Britain. I've read the ones in Greece are very attractive, though, as well as those around coastal Africa—"

"Leprechauns? Do you have leprechauns too?"

"Yes."

"Fairies?" I'm on a roll now. "Dragons? Centaurs?"

"Yes, yes, and yes."

"Blimey," I breathe. "Hermione... can I ask you something else?"

"Sure."

"All the letters you sent to me in the past... were they all made up?" She bites her lip, and I quickly add, "Not that I would be upset with you if they were. I understand you had to conceal the magical aspect from me... I'm only wondering."

"They weren't made up," she supplies, "I only had to change the obvious things. Like whenever I mentioned 'chemistry class' I was really talking about Potions. Clever, aren't I?" she smirks.

"Absolutely brilliant," I respond, only now realizing that we're approaching the park we used to play at as children. We pass the empty play structures and head down another path, eventually stopping at a bench around some trees and bushes. She sits next to me, and I take her hands in my grasp, gently stroking her knuckles. I feel like I need to hold on to her to make sure she's still there—that she's real, and that our whole relationship isn't just some cruelly vivid dream that I'm eventually going to wake up from. "So what happens now, Hermione?"

"Ron," she begins, "I've told you everything I can. But now… I have to leave soon."

"Leave? But you don't have to go back to Hogwarts until September, right?"

"I'm not going back to school."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… I have to go with Harry to… to find a way to end this once and for all. He needs my help and—"

"You're barmy if you think I'm going to let you skip around the country to hunt down a madman, and you're downright mental if you think your parents will let you either."

And suddenly, Hermione is crying in the most sudden outburst of tears I've ever witnessed. Her body is shaking as she brings her hands to her reddened face, violently sobbing into her palms and fingers. Bloody hell, the girl I love hasn't even been back a full two days and I've already made her cry _twice_. Cursing myself, I scoot closer to her on the bench and wrap my arms around her shoulders. She immediately accepts my embrace, turning to bury her face in my shoulder.

"I'm s-s-sorry, R-Ron," she blubbers against me, barely comprehensible as her words are muffled by the now damp fabric of my shirt, "I j-j-just d-don't want to talk about my p-parents right now…" she trails off as another sob wracks through her small frame. I've never seen her more distraught, and it's killing me too.

"Hey," I say softly, stroking her locks, "whatever it is, it's okay and you can tell me when you're ready. Let me take you home. I'll make you a cuppa and we can… talk, or whatever you want."

She doesn't respond for several moments, still shaking against me. I tuck a particularly wild curl behind her ear and place the softest kiss on her forehead; she stills under my touch before looking up at me, biting her bottom lip.

Finally, she manages to choke out an "okay" and I help her up.

She's breathing normally again by the time I sit her down on the couch in her sitting room and hand her a piping hot cup of tea with the slightest bit of ginger, just how she likes it. The skin of her face adopts its normal hue once more, but the familiar tear tracks remain. She offers me a weak smile as I curl up next to her, sipping at my own cup, patiently waiting.

"Sounds like Harry's still asleep," she sighs. She takes a tentative sip at her hot beverage before setting it down. "Guess I wrote him a note for nothing. Oh well… listen, Ron," she begins again, turning toward me, "I'm sorry I sort of, well, exploded on you back there—"

"I wish you'd stop apologizing for having emotions, Hermione." I place my cup on one of the several coasters placed on the coffee table, using both of my free hands to take hers in mine, and scoot even closer. Our bodies were already touching, but now—well, I can feel her breath against my freckled cheeks, and I can smell her spearmint toothpaste and the ginger from her tea emanating from her mouth, as well as the familiar citrusy fragrance on her skin.

"I know, but…" she grins a bit, "I can't imagine boys like it when a girl is constantly crying around them."

"It's nothing like that."

"I've never seen _you_ cry. Except that one time we watched _Beauty and the Beast_ and you thought the prince was going to die—"

"I was _not_ crying."

"Something stuck in your eye, then?"

"Right."

"Right," she agrees... and suddenly, she's giggling uncontrollably, which is quite a shock, because Hermione Granger does _not_ giggle. A giggle, mind you, is decidedly different from a laugh, chuckle, or guffaw—a giggle, _her_ giggle is the sweetest thing I've ever heard; high-pitched and silly and carefree. I join her, and soon we're sprawled out on the couch: myself on my back, one leg up on the cushions, the other still dangling toward the floor, with Hermione partially on top of me, her torso leaning against my chest, both of her feet still touching the rug beneath us. The pointless giggle-storm subsides after another moment, and we remain there in a comfortable silence for a while. At some point my hand finds her head, and strokes her mane idly. A light chuckle escapes my lips.

"What're you laughing at, Weasley?" she playfully inquires.

"Nothing, I was just thinking… you were talking about how I must not like it when you cry in front of me, and it reminded me of the first time you cried in front of me and how I sort of… liked it."

"You _liked_ seeing me cry, Ronald?" She shifts her head to look up at me, and she looks slightly hurt.

"No, I didn't mean it like that—bloody hell, I'm an idiot, aren't I?" I backtrack, biting my bottom lip as I inwardly curse myself. "What I mean is… well, crying in front of someone is sort of an intimate thing, yeah? It's not something people usually do in public, or with someone they're not comfortable with, that is. Because crying makes you look… er, vulnerable? Yeah, vulnerable. And you have to trust someone a lot to show them your vulnerable side. So when you cried in front of me that first time when you told me we wouldn't be going to the same school anymore, I hated seeing you sad, Hermione—but at the same time, I couldn't help but feel a little… _good_ that you trusted me. I still feel that way. I like that you trust me."

"Of course I trust you, Ron. You're my best friend."

"I know." I look down at her, still resting against me, her palm touching my chest, and her eyes are _so_ big and _so_ brown. Her lips look plumper than I've ever seen them, and only now do I comprehend, in our current position, how simple it would be for me to lean down and brush my lips against hers…

"Morning, Hermione," a familiar voice enters the room, "I thought you said you were going— _oh_ , sorry." Harry Potter stops dead in his tracks as he takes notice of the compromising position Hermione and I are in, and we immediately bolt upward and put ourselves together. "I—er, I saw the note you left me, Hermione," he says, holding up a small, folded piece of paper. "Did you already go out?"

"Yeah, it's almost eleven now. You've slept nearly half the day away, Sleeping Beauty."

"Sorry. It's good to see you again, Ron," he adds, awkwardly waving to me.

"Shall I go throw together some brunch, boys?" Hermione stands up, fidgeting with her hands, and leaves the room before either of us can respond. I share a glance with Harry before following her into the kitchen, where she's already busying herself pulling out pans, eggs, and milk. "I was going to make crêpes."

"Okay, cool," I mutter, watching her movements. "Look, Hermione—"

"I imagine you still have many questions, Ron, about what's going on." She pulls out a stick of butter from the refrigerator and places it on the counter. "And I promise, in time I will make sense of it all. I just ask you wait until after we eat. My head won't be screwed on tight if my stomach is empty."

"That sounds like something I would say," I laugh, quirking an eyebrow. "But actually, I only have one question right now, Hermione."

"Oh, and what would that be?"

"You're still coming to the wedding with me, right?"

She smiles and nods.

* * *

"Come and dance."

The words are so abrupt—and so _confident_ —that I almost question if it was me that truly said them. But when Hermione turns in her seat to address her proposer, it's undoubtedly _me_ she's looking at—and my heart practically explodes from my chest.

"I'd love to, Ron."

Once we're on the dance floor, my arms naturally wrap around her petite waist, pulling her against me. She places her own around my shoulders, and we sway to the romantic tune coming from the sultry songstress. Hermione is brilliant tonight in this floaty lilac dress with Cinderella-esque slippers. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek bun that I imagine took several bottles of hair lotion to achieve, with a few loose tendrils elegantly framing her face. She's wearing the subtlest layer of makeup, and—while I think she's always brilliant au naturel, mind you—it does suit her: the rosy blush on her cheeks, the shimmer of her lip gloss. Her Jack Russell grins against her flawless skin.

As we continue to sway, Hermione melts into my embrace, resting her head against my chest. I tighten my hold on her little waist and bury my chin and nose in her hair, which her small stature allows me to do rather easily. Only now in our late teens are the differences in our physiques truly significant; I feel like she fits right into me, like puzzle pieces. I know I could pick her right up and swing her around my head like a princess if I wanted to. She smells _so_ good too, a mixture of the citrus perfume I gave her two years earlier (which I now consider to be Hermione's signature scent), the vanilla fragrance of her body wash, and the strawberries of her shampoo. It's intoxicating, and for a moment I nearly forget that we're surrounded by a ton of other people, and I shouldn't lose myself in her like I want to.

I'm shocked to realize that this is the first time I've danced with her—well, _with her_ with her. Sure, we've done silly jigs and swings during the many times I've been at her house, and vice versa, but this is the first time I've held her as we swayed to a common rhythm, our bodies moving in sync. I've never been much of a dancer, but not once do I step on her toes or bump into neighboring couples, most of whom are ginger-haired members of my extended family.

"Fleur looks like a princess," she says softly, staring at my new sister-in-law, dancing with my eldest brother Bill in the center of the dance floor.

"So do you." I have a thought, and bite my lip to stifle the resulting chuckle.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," I shrug. "It's stupid."

"I remember you once telling me that nothing I could say is stupid. So, the same applies to you. Spit it out, young man." Only Hermione Granger could scold me at a wedding, while we're dancing, no less.

"Fine, Granger, you big bully," I sigh deeply and grin. "But how about we go for a walk?"

"Am I that bad of a dancer?"

"What—no! I just thought—"

"I'm kidding, Ron." She pats my shoulder, and my ears are blessed with another rare Hermione giggle. "I fancy a walk too." We grab our jackets from the seats we had previously been occupying and make our way outside of the rented marquee in the backyard and onto the streets in front of my home.

"So… is Harry okay?" I ask.

"Yeah," she softly replies, "I placed protective enchantments around my house, and my parents are there to keep him company. We're okay for now."

"Good."

"I've always liked backyard weddings," Hermione muses as we walk, "They're very quaint."

"And luckily ours is big enough to support the Weasley army. But yours is plenty big too... if you ever wanted your own backyard wedding." My heart flutters at the thought of Hermione getting married... or rather, the question of whether I would be a guest or the groom...

"I admire how your family keeps such close connections with the other Weasley's. I've barely met any of my extended family aside from a few cousins."

"Don't feel too bad about that—just because they're family doesn't mean they're nice. I'm guessing you met my great aunt Muriel."

"Oh yes, she made it a point to bring to attention my 'bad posture and skinny ankles'."

"I'm sorry. Don't take it personally—the old bat is rude to everyone. But she's family."

"I suppose I should be thankful then that I got my teeth fixed before I met her. Otherwise I'm sure she would have had more to say."

"Are you ever going to tell me what _really_ happened to your teeth?" We turn a corner. "To be honest, I never bought that 'advanced orthodontic treatment' story for a second."

"I had them magically shrunk," she supplies.

"Oh, I s'pose that adds up," I nod. "Though, for the record Hermione, I liked your teeth the way they were. They were… unique."

"Unique?" she snorts. "You mean huge and unsightly?"

"They suited you."

"I looked like a squirrel. Or a chipmunk. Whichever one has bigger teeth."

"And you were the cutest chipmunk I've ever seen."

"Mmm." She grabs my arm as we idly continue our journey around the neighborhood; she leans against my shoulder and sighs in content. "Don't think I've forgotten the real reason I agreed to come out here with you, Weasley. What were you going to tell me while we were dancing?"

"Well…" I begin slowly. "You said Fleur looks like a princess—and I think _you_ look like a princess, so it made me wonder, er… who your favorite princess is. You know, from the Disney movies."

"Hmm," she considers the matter, her impeccably shaped eyebrows crinkling in thought. "It's funny, I would've thought I'd have shared that with you by now."

"I know you like ginger in your tea, you only think hot chocolate is worth drinking if there's marshmallows _and_ whipped cream, your favorite color is periwinkle, and your favorite type of dog is a Jack Russell Terrier. Only seems fit that I should know your favorite princess too, doesn't it?"

"I agree," she laughs lightly. "I guess I like Belle the most."

"Figures," I practically snort, "the bookworm."

"Hey! She's a clever, well-written heroine! And besides, don't act like Ariel isn't your favorite because she has red hair."

"You got me there." By this time we've rounded another corner and my house is in our view again. "Fancy hanging out in my room for a bit? Before we rejoin the party, that is."

"Sure." She holds me tighter, snuggling into my arm. When we make it upstairs to my room, she plops herself onto my orange cover-clad twin bed and pats the spot next to her invitingly. I accept, cozying myself next to her. She's playing with her necklace, a sad smile teasing the corners of her lips.

"Can I ask you something?" I say.

"You just did."

"Oh wow, Granger. Have you considered doing stand-up?"

"It is a career choice I've been considering. But seriously," she beams at me, "what is it, Ron?"

"What was that spell you showed me the first time you… revealed yourself to me?"

"It's called a Patronus," she coolly explains. "It's a very powerful defense. It's a guardian, really. It's also a very complex spell. I had difficulty with it at first."

"What makes it difficult?"

"The caster must think of their happiest memory ever."

"That doesn't sound so hard."

"You'd be surprised. In general it can't be any little thing, like a nice day at the park or the first time you went on vacation. It has to be something very… intimate, close to your heart. It has to really fill you up for the charm to have any substance to it… and I imagine you're wondering what my happiest memory is."

"Well, yeah." The tips of my ears bloom an embarrassing shade of rose red; she knows me so well. "I mean, if you don't mind telling me, of course."

"Naturally." She nods, fluttering her eyes shut as she gives her bottom lip a small bite. "Well, Ronald, I'll have you know that, so far, the only memory I've been able to use that produces a worthy Patronus is… when I kissed your cheek during Christmastime, two years ago."

"You're telling me that your happiest memory is… kissing me?"

"It would seem so. Not just the kissing part, but… being surrounded by your family; the warmth of your home… being with you."

And now she's looking at me, and my eyes are boring into hers as well. The light from the setting sun coming in from my bedroom window sets her dark stare on fire, and her glossy lips shimmer, looking plumper and more kissable than I've ever dreamed. She's breathing so deeply, and each exhale hits me in the face like a tidal wave. Our lips are mere inches apart, but she's not moving back—in fact, I think she's getting closer…

"Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to kiss you," I declare in a husky breath, "but first I need to tell you something… Hermione, I—"

"I know what you're going to say," her voice quivers, "but I need you not to say it."

"Why not?"

"Because if you do, it's only going to make it harder to do what I have to do. So, please—"

"No, Hermione," I say, and the firmness in my voice makes her jump back a bit, staring me down. But I've already declared my intention, so there's no going back now, "I'm going to tell you right now that I love you. Even more so, I'm _in_ love with you. I'm going to drill the fact that I'm in love with you through that thick, brilliant skull of yours, because if I don't, and I just say 'I love you', you might walk away thinking I mean I love you like a sister. And I don't—I need you know I don't love you the way I love Ginny. I love you the way my dad loves my mum, or the way your parents love each other."

"Please," she grips my hand tightly; my fingers ache. "Don't say anymore, Ron."

"I love you, Hermione Granger," I continue as if she hadn't spoken. "I bloody well think I started falling in love with you the day we started talking to each other. That's the only explanation I can think of as to why I spontaneously decided to approach you. I didn't realize it until later, but… but I don't care if it was fate or magic or a bloody Cupid arrow shot in my bum—all I know is that I love you, and if you'll have me, I promise I'll—"

"Oh, _Ron!_ " She practically falls into me, pressing her face against my neck, wrapping her arms around my torso. She moves to dig her little nose into my collarbone, and— _bloody hell_ —she starts planting the faintest of kisses along my jawline. "I love you too," she whispers, her voice shaking with emotion.

"R-Really?"

"Y-Yes," she hiccups, pulling back to look at me, "I think I've loved you since the day you defended me from those two boys at the park. Remember that? For the longest time I wasn't willing to accept it because I didn't want to jeopardize our friendship—but then when you wrote to me about that girl who liked you, I remember feeling _so_ jealous because I thought you were going to get with her and not want to spend time with me anymore. I couldn't deny how I felt about you after that."

"Blimey," I breathe. "Why didn't you say anything, love?"

"Why didn't you?"

"I waited longer than I wanted, but I still beat you to it."

"Fair enough," she chuckles as a single tear falls down her cheek. She snuggles back into my neck, inhaling my aftershave and sighing contently.

"So…"

"So…"

"Are we… you know, together now?"

She sighs again, scooting out of my embrace and rising to her feet. She steps toward my street-view window, turning around to look at me while leaning against the sill with her hands.

"I can't, Ron. This is why I didn't want you to say… what you just said. Because I can't give you want you want right now."

"You don't want me?"

"No, of course I do—I want you more than anything! But the fact is I can't act on what I _want_ to do right now, I have to act on what I _need_ to do. And right now I need to help Harry put an end to all that's happening in our world—yours too. It wouldn't be fair to either of us to string you along for God knows how long when there's a possibility I might not even make it out of all this alive."

I'm shaking. All this evening, Hermione and I had been in a pleasant suspense, where there were no dark wizards or evil forces to penetrate our bubble of happiness. Now, she is popping it, allowing the unpleasant reality to set in once more. I can't let her. I won't.

"It's not your job to save the world, Hermione."

"But I can't turn my back now. I've already promised Harry—"

"Harry, Harry, Harry!" I stand up at this point, confronting her. "Is he all you care about? Is that really why you say you need to leave, because you want to run off with him? Is this your way of letting me down easily?"

For a second, I'm quite sure she's going to slap me. Her lips form a hard line, and there's this intensity to her stare that is quite intimidating, even in spite of the fact that she's much smaller than me.

"How dare you!" she spits shrilly. "I'm leaving to try to make this world safer for everyone— _including you_ —and you're going to stand there and accuse me of messing around with a boy that I think of as my brother? You—complete—" she gives my chest a firm push with each word, "— _arse_ , Ronald Weasley! And to think I actually—I actually wanted to—"

"To what?"

And then, Hermione Granger is kissing me with more ferocity than I could imagine such a tiny girl could possess. Her hands are entangled in my hair, fingers teasing the tops of my ears. The warmth of her lips is scalding, with a distinct taste of toothpaste, strawberry lip balm, and cider. Her mouth is warmer, softer, and more delicious than I would ever have imagined it… and I've imagined it a countless number of times these past few years, mind you. I slither my arms around her waist, my hands placed firmly on her lower back… melting into her. She moans—bloody hell, Hermione Granger is _moaning_ —and I growl against her mouth in response. I feel myself begin to react to her in ways that I know no other woman will ever be able to induce in me—she's it for me; she's the one; I'm done in.

All too soon, Hermione pulls away, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry." She backs away, toward the door. "I can't. I'm sorry."

Once she's pressed against it completely, she reaches into her jacket and pulls out her wand. Fresh tears cascade down her flushed features, and her bun is coming loose, unruly curls sticking out in every direction. She looks like a madwoman, but a beautiful one nonetheless. Then, she raises her wand toward me, and my heart drops.

"Hermione, what're you—?" Suddenly, from the crevices of my mind, I pull forward a distinct echo of the conversation I eavesdropped on the day I met Harry… a conversation I had forgotten to question her about in the midst of my discovery that she is a witch…

 _Because I want to enjoy every last moment I have with him. Even if he won't remember it._

Bloody hell.

I instinctively hold up my hands, as if they will protect me from whatever she's planning to do. Hermione looks like she's having a mental battle, holding up her wand, then lowering it slightly, looking from me to her feet to the floor to the window, shaking and producing more silent tears. Finally, she seems to decide, and I hold my breath.

"I'm sorry, Ron."

Hermione pockets her wand, opens the door, and bolts out of sight before I know what hit me—or, rather, what _didn't_ hit me. I run after her down the stairs, but she's already fled out the front entrance of my house; my eyes capture the briefest flash of her brunette mane as she disappears into the night. There's a near deafening _crack_ , like a car backfiring, somewhere on the street. I'm hot on her trail as I run into the open darkness, where I look in every direction for the sight of her flowing dress and bouncing hair.

"HERMIONE!" I bellow into the empty streets, "HERMIONE! HERMIONE!"

But she's gone, leaving behind only the scent of her perfume and the tingling on my lips as proof she was ever there.

* * *

Her house is empty. The landline is disconnected. There are no missing persons reports. It's as if Hermione Granger has disappeared off the very face of Earth.

Or that she never existed at all.

When my family inevitably asks why Hermione hasn't been coming around, or why I'm not talking about her, I tell them we had a falling out, and she wants her distance for a while. Then, for good measure, I tell them that she's moved. It's the most painful lie I've ever had to tell, but I don't know what else to do.

The first few months are the hardest. I slide by in school with average grades and a combined routine of crying myself to sleep each night, forcing myself to eat when I'd otherwise just sit there and wither away, in addition to doing a double take whenever I see a girl with curly, brunette hair. It's killing me, but in a way, the pain is almost welcome, because it reminds me that she is real— _was_ real, at least—and not merely a manifestation of my own desires. At least the pain has an undeniable substance.

I've heard about heartbrokenness before, of course—in books, movies, songs, et cetera—and until now I've always regarded it as an imaginary feeling, a psychological response to a strongly negative occurrence. But no… my chest _hurts_. The most painful part is not knowing whether or not she's even alive. She could have been struck dead by Lord Whatshisname the moment she left my house that night, or she could have died just yesterday of an illness, or she could be alive and married with children right now—and I would have no idea. I would kill for a sign—the smallest _inkling_ —that she is still breathing.

There are several nights where I think to leave—to just pack a bag with the essentials, leave a note for my family, and disappear into the cold night. I would catch the first train to God Knows Where, and from there I would walk; traveling from place to place, village to village, until I found her, or until Death found me first. But I never make it past the front door, the little voice in the back of my head ensuring me that it would be a pointless journey that would only augment my suffering.

I turn eighteen, and it's the first year I tell Mum not to bother making a cake, or using whatever scraps of money the family has to buy me anything. She practically has to beg me to attend my own graduation ceremony, where I sit stiffly among the rows of my smiling classmates, simply going through the motions only to immediately return home and fall into bed with a fresh wave of tears. June slips into July, which gradually warms its way into August, the first day of which marks the one year anniversary of the last time I've seen Hermione Granger.

My writing desk is where I spend most of my time these days, and August 1st, 1998 is no different. It's certainly nothing special—a small, beat up wooden thing left behind when Charlie moved out to pursue a zoology career in Romania—but it sits comfortably before my window, offering the view of passing joggers and dog-walkers and cars as inspiration for whatever doodles or words my mind comes up with, which I promptly record on a piece of paper. Most of them end up balled up in the rubbish bin, but at least it's something to do besides wallowing in my own misery. It's a warm Saturday afternoon, and the streets are busy with people out and about, enjoying their weekend. A rare knock on my door turns my attention away from a young couple holding hands as their small child waddles along in front of them.

"Come in."

"Hey." George Weasley makes himself comfortable on my bed, and I swivel in my chair to look at him.

"Hi."

"What are you up to?"

"Nothing," I shrug.

"Seems like that's what you've been doing for a while now."

"I'spose."

"Well…" he plays with a loose thread in my blanket, "aren't you a bit tired of doing nothing?"

"I dunno. I don't think you can get tired of doing nothing but it's nothing to get tired of. How can you get tired if you're not exerting any energy?"

"What an odd sense of humor you possess, little brother," George grins, but when I don't return it, his expression falls into a melancholy stare. "Listen, Ron," George begins and scoots to the end of the bed, leaning forward, "I won't play any games with you. I won't pretend to know everything, because I don't—although I'm sure you think I do, being the amazing big brother that I am," he gives a small, signature Weasley twin smirk. "I won't pretend to know the intimate details about what went on between you and… Hermione." I wince; it's the first time in a while her name has been mentioned out loud. "But I know it's affecting you. I can see it—we can all see it, honestly. And, well, I know it's hard to hear, but I think it's time you move on, yeah? It's been a year—and, you know, you're so young, mate. I know it feels like your first love will be your only love, but I promise, life goes on. But you have to give the starting push, and _this_ —" he motions to me, "—what you're doing, it isn't healthy. Truthfully, we're all a little concerned about you, Ron. You haven't been yourself since she left."

"I don't _feel_ like myself," I breathe softly. "I really loved her, George. It's cheesy as hell, but I almost feel like—when she left—she took a part of me with her. We became so close all these years that it's like a part of me latched itself onto her. She was my best friend. She was someone I could be silly with; we'd laugh about the stupidest things. I could be myself around her and I knew she would accept me. Not that I don't feel that way with you and the others, of course. But with her it was—"

"—different," George completes. "I understand. At the same time, though… I think she would want you to move on. Hermione wouldn't want you to be weighed down by whatever happened between you two. Look, mate," he stands up now, closing the small gap between us by putting a hand on my shoulder, "none of us are going to force you to go outside, meet new people, or talk to other girls, but… think about it. Not for us, but for yourself."

"Thanks, George."

"I don't say this enough, little brother, but I love you very much. We all do."

I'm so taken aback I practically fall out of my chair in my attempt to stand up and hug him. George catches me, and we share a firm, back-clapping hug before he gives me a knowing grin and leaves me to my thoughts once more.

* * *

Sleep has gotten easier in the past few months or so. I've long abandoned the whole cry-until-your-eyes-sting-so-much-you-can't-keep-them-open routine in lieu of simply thinking about her, looking back at all of our times together until my eyes close indefinitely. If I'm lucky I conjure just the right amount of memories pre-sleep to trigger a vivid dream about her. Again, it's a sort of pleasurable pain, because even though I'll wake up to discover she's still gone, at least I got to have her for a moment.

Tonight, however, proves to be a different story, a reemergence of those nights after she first left, when sleep was near impossible, and my eyes were glued to the walls, as if expecting her to come bursting through them in a flash of angelic light. I stare at the ceiling, wide awake as a gentle breeze wafts in through my cracked window. By the time I bother to check my alarm clock it's nearing three in the morning, but I'm not remotely close to Dreamland. Hell, I'm not even in the same area code. My mind is on overload, combing through my afternoon conversation with George, and… well, _considering_ his suggestions.

I can't beat myself up for it. She's been gone for a bloody year now; if she is still alive (I shudder to think about the possibility that she isn't), or has even the slightest interest in seeing me again, she would have done it by now. And as much as my lovelorn heart doesn't want me to, would it really be so bad to call up some of the boys from school and see how they're doing? Or even ask Lavender out for a spot of tea? It's a _start_ at least, the first step on Moving On Road—and yes, even _I_ know that, eventually, I'm going to have to go down that road completely, lest I have no chance of surviving community college and going on to be a productive member of society.

I've just about made up my mind, and am tempted get up and make a to-do list for the upcoming day ( _1\. Try not to think about her. 2. Mow the lawn. 3. Try not to think about her. 4. Call someone. 5. Try not to think about her._ ) when it happens: a silver otter, slithering beneath the crack in my window before coming to wade over my bed. I bolt upward, knocking a pillow off the bed and sending my covers askew, and watch as Hermione Granger's Patronus opens its mouth and says, _in Hermione Granger's voice_ : "If you're awake, turn on your lights, and I'll be there in two seconds." Then, the otter dissolves.

I don't need to be told twice. Jumping out of bed, I flick on the switch by the door, turning on the ceiling lights, before running to my desk and turning on the lamp, and then to my bedside table where another little lamp resides. I don't even have a chance to turn back toward the center of my bedroom when a loud _crack_ erupts; I turn and—

Bloody hell.

There she is.

Hermione.

Jean.

Granger.

She's standing there, in a pair of jeans and dark boots. She's got on this thick, pink jacket, zipped up to the neck—but I can still see the familiar glint of the gold chain of her necklace, the pendent of which must be hidden beneath her top later. Her mane is pulled back in a tight plait and her face is sort of—I dunno, unbelievable. She's definitely paler than the last time I saw her—skinnier too—but I'd drop dead before I say she's not still not the most beautiful sight I've ever been blessed enough to witness. She looks incredulous, as if silently questioning if I'm really there.

"Um," she speaks, her voice as soft and cool as I remember it. "Hi."

"Hi."

"How are you?"

The woman is mad. How am I? _How am I?_ Hermione Jean Granger—the girl who leaves me standing alone in the cold streets of England after we confess our love for each other, the girl who disappears for a bloody _year_ with another bloke, the girl who only _now_ decides to stick her pretty little head back into my life, _just_ when I was entertaining the idea of moving on for the sake of my mental health—is asking _me_ how _I_ am. Christ.

"Well," I have to sit back on my bed to prevent myself from fainting, "why don't _you_ start first?"

* * *

"I was going to do it to you," she whispers into my shirt as she snuggles closer against my chest, "and your family."

"Oh," I mutter. I rub her back, tracing little circles into the fabric of her jacket, "I… I'm glad you didn't."

"I _couldn't_ do it, Ron. I sent my parents to Australia with new identities and false memories to protect them—and it certainly did. You should have seen my house when I first returned, it was a mess: the Death Eaters had certainly searched it at some point. And if my parents had still been there, they would have certainly killed them on the spot. My plan with you was a little less radical. I wasn't going to give you false memories or new names or make you move away. I knew that your risks weren't as high because you weren't as directly affiliated with me as my parents, obviously. With you I was just going to… erase me. You know, make you forget you ever met me. You'd still be Ronald Weasley, but you'd have no idea who Hermione Granger was. To be honest, I had never planned on revealing myself to you, but when it came down to it… I thought you deserved to know… even if I was going to make you forget. Seems silly, doesn't it? But it made me feel a little better to open up to you about everything. With you it was less about protection and more about… not causing you pain in case I never came back. I had planned it for months but when it actually came time to… to pull my wand out on you, I couldn't do it. But the reality is that it was very selfish of me."

"Selfish?" I repeat.

"I know it sounds morbid, Ron," she licks her lips, looking up at me, "but the truth is that when I agreed to go off with Harry to find the… the means to defeat Voldemort once and for all, I had come to terms with the possibility that I wouldn't make it out of alive. Obviously I wasn't trying to be a martyr, but… I was willing to do whatever it took to make the world safer. Not just my world, but yours too. I wanted a world where I knew you and my parents wouldn't be mindlessly murdered just for being Muggles, a world where people would be safe regardless of their blood status—even if I couldn't be a part of it. So I wanted to do everything in my power to ensure that, if I died, my parents wouldn't have to suffer. I applied the same rationale with you…"

I gulp, and she gently strokes the bottom of my chin; the mere act sets every cell in my body on fire. Hermione Granger. This beautiful, magical, mad girl.

"I was going to do it, Ron—I was going to wait until after the wedding when all of your family was back in the house and just—do it. I'd leave, and none of you would have any idea that a girl named Hermione Granger had ever come into your lives. All of my letters to you would disappear too, as well as any pictures you had with me in them— _that's_ how powerful the spell is. Then I was to go home, perform the spell on my parents, and leave with Harry that same night. _That_ part I successfully executed, at least. But with you…" she trails off. Her stare is intense, shades of golden brown twinkling in her eyes as the combination of my lamps and the light from the rising sun shines in her irises.

"Don't misunderstand me, Hermione," I begin, "I'm bloody well thrilled you didn't do it… but, what made you stop?"

"Because… the thought of you not knowing who I was, and having no memory of all we've been through together, and having no idea how much I loved you… in the heat of the moment, it was more than I could bear. Even more so than doing the same thing to my parents, can you believe it?" She offers a teary-eyed grin. "I was willing to spare my parents of the pain, but not you. I told you it was incredibly selfish of me. I'm sorry, Ron."

" _Sorry?_ " I reiterate. " _Sorry?_ Honestly Hermione, I think it would have been selfish of you _to_ erase my memories."

"What—?"

"With your parents I can understand," I explain, "because with them being on your documents and all, they were in more imminent danger than I was. But with me, Hermione—you had no right. They're _my_ memories—my recollection of falling in love with you. When you left, those memories were the only thing that kept me alive, and the fact that you even _thought_ about taking them away from me—it _hurts_ , love. And it would have been for nothing, because you're here now, and you're alive, and there hasn't been the slightest bit of trouble around here since you left."

"I… I…" she sort of whimpers, "I could have— _would_ have—reversed it. Restored your memories, I mean. I've already done it with my parents. That's why it took me so long to get back, you see. I would have come back in May, the very day after the battle even, but there was _so_ much to do, Ron: the funerals, the clean-up, the reports, the trials, the rounding up of the Death Eaters. Then, of course, I had to go to Australia and find my parents, which in itself was another trial. But they're home now, and the house is cleaned up, and… they've forgiven me. I mean, they were never really angry to begin with, but it's just… a lot to take in, discovering their only daughter sent them away. I was going to wait until a more decent hour to visit you, but I was tossing and turning in my old bed all night and I couldn't wait any longer."

"I'm glad you didn't." I move my head to place a light kiss on her forehead; my lips are so faintly pressed to her skin that I wonder if she even feels it at all. "So… it's really over now, Hermione? He's dead?"

"Yes," she confirms, "for good this time. But it's still dangerous out there. Our government is working hard to find the last of the Death Eaters and bring them to justice. Without a leader they're all pretty much in hiding, but we can't allow them the opportunity to try to continue their Lord's work."

"Blimey," I breathe, "and to think, you were off fighting a war, while us non-magic folk have been sitting on our arses all these years, not having any idea what was going on."

"It wouldn't have been that way for long. If Voldemort had truly risen to power… God knows what would be happening to Muggles right now."

"I wish I was a wizard," I think out loud. "If I was, I would have been right there next to you the entire time. I would have helped you and Harry defeat him."

"I like you just the way you are, Ron," Hermione insists. She scoots off of me to prop her head up on one of her elbows. "No magic needed. Speaking of which… you haven't told anyone, have you?"

"Not a soul."

"Good."

"Out of curiosity though," I inquire, "if I _was_ to blab and make a scene, and your government found out—what would happen?"

"For me, it could range anywhere from a small fine to jail time to confiscation of my wand, depending on the severity of the incident and the amount of Muggles exposed to magic. They would simply wipe your memories of the event."

"What's it with you magic folk and violating people's memories?" We share a laugh, and—bloody hell—it's the first time I hear her laugh in a _year_. A whole twelve months without hearing this beautiful, angelic series of "ha ha's" and "hee hee's". Now that I'm hearing it again, I have no idea how I survived so long without it. When we stop, there's that comfortable silence that we've shared so many times before, and this time it's even more enjoyable, because I know she'll be around for us to share a lot more of them. "What's the plan now, Hermione?" I ask some time later.

"Well…" she thinks, "I very much plan to return to Hogwarts next month to complete my education. I'm still trying to talk Harry into coming with me, but he's already getting offers for jobs at the Ministry so I'm not sure… Speaking of Harry," she makes it a point to look me straight in the eyes, "I need you to know right now, Ron, that there has never been anything non-platonic between Harry and I. We bonded at Hogwarts rather quickly, being misfits and all—the orphaned Chosen One and the know-it-all Muggle-born with the big teeth—but that's all we've ever been: friends. I love him like a brother, and I know he thinks of me as a big sister too. I need you to understand that when I left with him, I did it to help him save our world, not to copulate in some teenage love affair. I wish I could have told you more about him from the start, but after a while it got too dangerous to mention him in any of my letters to you, in case they were intercepted. I wish you got to know him the way I did, you would have liked him."

"There's nothing saying that can't still happen, is there? If you bring him around more often."

She smiles. "I'm glad you feel that way."

I run a hand through my hair, feeling a sudden shame for my past actions. "Look, Hermione, when I said—you know, what I said, about you and Harry—I was speaking out of anger. You were leaving me after I had just given you my heart on a platter, and the only logical conclusion I could draw was that it was because of him. In hindsight I see it wasn't logical at all, but at the time, when you're a seventeen-year-old bloke watching the love of your life wander off with some other man—a man who's famous in your world, no less—you start to see things that aren't really there. I'm sorry I acted that way. Will you forgive me, please?"

"Only if you forgive me for almost tampering with your memories."

"Done," I laugh. "But you're really leaving again so soon, Hermione?" I see that she senses the sadness in my question. I _just_ got her back, and already she's planning on disappearing again.

"The term starting dates don't change for war heroes, Ron," she gives a small smirk. "It's only a few months, then I'll be back for the winter holiday, like I always am."

"Fine," I grumble, "but for now, if I only get you for four lousy weeks, you do realize I'm going to be attached to your hip the entire time, yeah? You've got a year's worth of Ron and Hermione Time to make up for, young lady."

"I actually don't think I would mind that." She glances at the digital alarm clock on my bedside table, which reads, in segmented red numbers: 6:09 AM. She got here around three—blimey, have we really been talking for three hours? It seems like she's only been here for three minutes, curled into me. It's all a bit surreal: her being her with me, an undeniably real human being, talking and laughing as if she hasn't been a ghost for the past twelve months. And, like the real Hermione always has been, she's aware of the rules: "If I know your household—and I'm sure I do—the rest of you lot will be stirring right around this time to start the day. I think I should be going now."

"Stay," I whine.

"As much as I want to see your family again, love, it would be bit of a shock if I just showed up at the breakfast table, wouldn't it? Let's give them a day or two, at least. You can tell them I'm back from whatever situation you made up when I first left."

"I told them we had a falling out and that you moved to America with your parents and were going to attend university there."

"Ugh, you told them we had a fight?" she rolls her eyes. "The moving abroad part I can understand, but now it's going to be awkward if they think we're quarreling lovers!"

"It was the only thing I could think of to… you know, make them stop mentioning you."

"Oh, I see." She rises from the bed now, smoothing out the creases in her jacket, and smiles at me. I join her in standing, marveling in how tiny she is compared to me; a perfect little pixie. "It's a good enough excuse, though I think your delivery could use some work. I'll have to give you acting lessons sometime. Something I learned at my American university," she laughs.

"To be taught be the most famed professor in the world?" I tease, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her closer. "What a treat!"

"If you're good I may even give you something special."

"Oh, like what?"

"I'm not sure. I'll think about it."

"Can I make a suggestion?"

"I don't know, Mister Weasley. Can you?"

I roll my eyes. "Cheeky. _May_ I make a suggestion?"

"You may."

I take one hand from her back and bring it up to her face, where I take her chin and delicately tilt her gaze to meet mine. She licks her lips and bats her mesmerizing chocolate eyes, knowing what I'm planning on doing.

"As much as I enjoyed our first kiss," I explain, "it certainly ended much too quickly for my liking. Do you think we could try it again?" She doesn't respond, but instead closes her eyes and parts her lips, waiting. I lean forward and make the slightest contact, heated sparks forming between us as my lips hover over hers. Then, I press in a bit more assertively, taking her mouth completely beneath mine. Hermione responds with equal enthusiasm, bringing her hands up to the sides of my face and stroking my cheeks. We stay like that for a solid minute: bodies intertwined, lips slowly moving against one another. There's no tongue or heated touching, but there doesn't need to be; we've got our whole lives for that. Right now, I'm simply thrilled to know her lips once more, and the warmth and passion she emits.

The need for air eventually impedes our capability of going further. When she pulls back, there's that big dopey grin that I've only seen once before. She looks positively love-struck, like Cupid's sharpest arrow has jabbed her right in the bum and she has no intention of pulling it out.

"Wow," she breathes.

"I take it I'm not a terrible kisser then?"

"Not at all, Ron."

I engulf her in another breathtaking embrace, and only when the clock is nearing 6:30 does she insist that it's really, truly time for her to leave. I pout slightly, placing a final peck on her sweet lips before she disappears from my room with another _crack_ (an apparent method of travel she promises to explain to me one day).

It's a little before eight by the time I trot downstairs showered, shaved, and dressed. Mum is at the stove top attending to bacon and eggs, Dad has already had his share and left for work, Fred and Ginny are playfully shoving each other as they wash their hands at the kitchen sink, and George is already sitting at the dining table, sipping at a tall glass of orange juice.

"Where's Percy?" I inquire, sitting next to him.

"Apparently he spent the night _again_ at that Audrey girl's house," George smirks. "I think it's getting rather serious... Hey, did you hear something a few hours ago? It sounded like a bloody car backfiring, but for the life of me it sounded like it was in our house."

"You know I'm a heavy sleeper."

"Hmm," George muses, "I must be going mad. Investing in a practical jokes shop will do that you... You might as well go wash your hands now, you know Mum won't serve you unless she physically observes you washing up."

"I know, I know," I chuckle. "I just wanted to tell you… well, you know that conversation we had yesterday?"

"'Course."

"The thing is... you won't believe this George, but… she's back," I stop just long enough to glance at the rest of my family to ensure they aren't listening, since I'm not quite ready to make the announcement to them all at once, "and… we're kind of a thing again."

* * *

When I see her parents again for the first time in a year, it's like they never left at all. They hug me as they welcome me back into their home, which surprisingly looks virtually the same as it did the last time I was in it. I was expecting—I dunno—chips in the wood and holes in the wall, per Hermione telling me that the Death Eaters had ransacked it. I figured that her magic could repair the basic damage, but—blimey, it looks as perfect as it's always been.

"Hermione's upstairs," Mr. Granger informs me, "with Harry."

Harry Potter is standing over Hermione's desk when I push open the cracked door and enter the room, casually glancing at some miscellaneous papers, a few of which appear to be piano sheet music.

"Hermione," he says, "you never told me you play the— _oh._ " Harry lets out an embarrassed chuckle when he turns and sees that Hermione has apparently turned into a six foot tall ginger male. "Hi Ron."

"Hi Harry." I'm not sure what comes over me, but I find myself stepping forward and engulfing him in a hug, firmly patting him on the back. I reckon I'm trying to silently communicate something—something that I'm too shy to verbally express, being that I still barely know the bloke—a sort of thank you, I guess, for making sure that the love of my life didn't die. Harry seems to get it, for he hugs me back, and it isn't even awkward. When we pull away, I find my voice again.

"Sorry," I mutter. "It's just… thank you. For taking care of Hermione."

"Don't mention it," he shrugs. "I'd be dead if it wasn't for her too."

"Where is she?"

"Went to the loo, I believe." He leans against the edge of the desk and smiles at me. "You know she really loves you, right?"

"I… I know." I try to sound confident about it, and feel the tips of my ears go red. "I'm mad for her too."

"When Hermione and I first became friends, you were all she would talk about. Even more so than homework!"

"That's hard to believe."

"It's true though," he chuckles. "Whenever we'd come back from holiday, the first few days would be nothing but Ron-talk. 'Ron says it should be a crime to have tea without biscuits'," he imitates in a high-pitched voice, "'I'm sure my friend Ron would be in Gryffindor if he went to Hogwarts. He's really brave. There was this one time at the park when he stood up to not one, but TWO boys!'; 'You know Ron got me this necklace? It's so sweet, he remembered Jack Russell Terriers are my favorite type of dog and I only mentioned it to him once!'; 'I really miss Ron. I hope you'll get to meet him someday, Harry'."

"Blimey—Hermione really said all that?"

"Oh yes, mate. And that's only a sample of Miss Granger's famous Ron-talk. One time she even said— _hey_ Hermione!" I turn away from Harry to see a very suspicious and somehow simultaneously amused Hermione Granger leaning against the white wooden door frame, arms crossed, eyebrows quirked upward, and lips curved into a tiny grin.

"Hullo boys," she coos in a playful, sing-song tone. "Do my ears deceive me or were you two talking about me?"

"Not at all," Harry grins.

"Mmhm," says Hermione. "Well, seeing that you two apparently aren't busy talking about me, would you like to come downstairs? Mum's just finished making an apple cake."

"We'll meet you down there," Harry supplies, and Hermione nods before departing. We wait a minute to hear the sound of her walking downstairs before bursting into laughter, and—for that one moment—it's like I've known Harry Potter for a very long time.

"Smooth, Harry."

"I try," he manages through another guffaw. "But seriously, Ron…" Harry pauses to study me, his emerald eyes gleaming. He steps forward and places a friendly hand on my shoulder. "I'm really glad she has you."

* * *

When I ask her to marry me, it's sort of… abrupt. It hinges off the fact that I feel terrible about having to miss her graduation ceremony because of the stupid "no Muggles allowed" secrecy rule, the only exceptions being the immediate blood relatives or legal spouse of the student—and seeing that I was neither, I immediately decided I didn't want to miss out on any other part of Hermione's life because of my non-magical status.

Well, perhaps "abrupt" isn't the most appropriate term to apply to the situation, because there _was_ a degree of planning beforehand. I _did_ get my girl a ring, thank you very much (we may not have much to our name, but Weasley men do _not_ propose without a ring), but truthfully, I did not have far to go. When I broke down to my parents a couple of weeks earlier, Dad rejoiced at my side, and Mum came into the room with an old wooden jewelry box that I had never seen before. Inside were two rose gold wedding bands—simple, but beautiful nonetheless.

"They belonged to your father's parents," Mum had explained, smiling at Dad, "Septimus and Cedrella Weasley. I know you don't remember much of them, Ron, for you were still very young when they died. He went only a few months after her, as a matter of fact. I suppose the love between them was so strong that he couldn't live without her. But before they passed, both of them made one thing very clear: they wanted what little they had to be enjoyed by their family for generations to come, including these rings."

"We tried to give them to Bill when he first told us he was going to ask for Fleur's hand," said Dad, "and you know what he said?"

"What?"

"He said 'save these for Ron. He once told me Hermione likes traditional things'."

"Woah," I turned to my father, amazed. "Did he really say that?"

"He did, dear," my mother confirmed, "and now I see why. It feels right, handing these rings to you." And in completing her statement, she passed the little brown box into my shaking hands.

" _Mum_ ," I gasped. "You're not even going to give me the whole 'you're much too young' run-around?"

"Your father and I were actually a bit younger than you when we married," she informed me, beaming at Dad. Of course I had heard the Arthur and Molly Saga a million times when I was a kid: how they had met at school and experienced a long period of romance, and married mere months after graduation. I just never imagined I would find myself in such a similar situation.

After that, I pondered on how I could propose to her for days until I finally decided on a sentimental approach. I would take her to the park by our houses—the same one where we spent so much of our childhood—and take her on the swings. I would push her and say—I dunno—that I think something fell out her pocket while she was in the air. She would stop immediately and start searching, to which I would say "oh, I found it!" and then present her with the ring. Perfect, right?

But then I visit her this particular afternoon, and I see her sitting there, curled up on her bed with a copy of _Jane Eyre,_ looking more relaxed and peaceful than I've ever seen her—and I realize that I could get used to seeing Hermione like this for the rest of my life: relaxed and reading, on the couch in our sitting room, in the bed we share as husband and wife, and even in a rocking chair with a curly-haired baby in her embrace—and it just sort of falls out. I hadn't even allowed myself the opportunity to ask her parents for their blessing, like I wanted… She looks up at me with incredulous brown eyes.

"Wha—What did you say, Ron?"

"Oh, bloody hell—I'm sorry, Hermione. I—I just—ugh, forget it."

"No, Ron." She's up from her bed now, and standing in front of me. "What did you just say?"

"Well, I… I asked you to marry me—but it's completely stupid, Hermione. I'm sorry. Blimey, we haven't even tried living together yet and here I go asking you to link up your life with me forever. It's just—I love you _so_ much, love, but you already know that, I hope, and I got you a ring—" I produce Cedrella Weasley's ring from my pocket, "—it was my old Nana Weasley's ring. I don't remember much about her, but I know she was really sweet and—and—I thought you'd like something with some history behind it—and—and—I'm sorry, Hermione, I love you and—"

"RON!" she practically screams, and my ramble is immediately put to rest.

"Y-Yeah?" I softly inquire a moment later, shaking.

"Shut up," she breathes, and then she's pressing her lips against mine in a mind-shattering snog. We seem to stay like that for an eternity, but when we finally pull apart, there's this hypnotizing gleam in her eyes that makes my heart skip a beat.

"Hermione," I begin, "did we just get—?"

"Yes," she answers before I can even finish my question, "I do believe we just did."

"But—you aren't mad at me?" I ask nervously. "I had planned something romantic. And I wanted to ask for your parents' blessing first. But I lost control, seeing you right now—"

"Ron," she interrupts, cupping my face lovingly, "if there's anything I've learned since the war, it's that life is too short to fool around when what you want is right in front of you. And to be honest, I've fantasized about you proposing to me since we were fifteen, so…" she giggles through a fresh stream of happy tears, "I know I want you… and you've made it clear that you want me too... And my parents, Ron—they've considered you a part of our family since the day I first brought you over to meet them. So… yes, I think it's safe to say we're engaged now. But first," she removes her hands from my face, leaving behind a deliciously warm sting, "I think you're supposed to put the ring on me, right?"

She extends the appropriate hand, and I shake with joy as I slowly slip Cedrella Weasley's ring—now Hermione's ring—onto her finger.

* * *

It's on our first night as husband and wife that I notice it for the first time. It's amazing, now that I think about it, to look back on our previous year together—how she must have purposefully avoided wearing short sleeved shirts…

"Hermione… you have a scar."

"Oh, yes." She attempts to put her hand over it, but I stop her, pulling up her left arm for me to examine the offending mark. It's faint—only a few shades darker than her natural vanilla hue—but it's the kind of scar you can tell once looked a hundred times worse.

"Hermione, what's a mud—?"

"Don't," she whimpers. She brings her free hand up to her mouth, as if she's trying to choke something back. "Do… do you remember when I once told you that being magical doesn't guarantee acceptance in the wizarding world? That there are people who think less of Muggle-borns?"

"Yes."

"Well… this is their name for us," she explains, looking down at the scar; the offensive invasion standing out against her otherwise perfect skin. "This is their way of letting us know what they think of us—that we're dirty. When I was on the hunt with Harry… a witch inflicted this on me. I've tried to remove it with some spells and potions, but… there's only so much you can do when it's inflicted by dark magic. It… it doesn't hurt anymore, Ron… but I'd rather not talk about it. Not tonight, at least. Tonight I just want... you."

I nod in understanding and gently bring her forearm up to my face, where I press my lips against each faint letter, before I proceed to kiss every other part of her as well.

* * *

"Ron," she says from her sitting position on the sofa, "I don't want to have kids yet."

I look over at her curiously from the carpeted floor, where I am tending to the flickering television screen—something Hermione insists can easily be fixed with a flick of her wand, but I take on the task to show her that even us Muggles can be useful for a thing or two. Sadly, it's been fifteen minutes of me playing with the buttons, and I've made no progress.

"Okay?" I carefully reply, wondering what caused her to make such an abrupt statement to begin with.

"You see, I—" she stops to wave her wand at the television set, and the picture indeed sharpens and stops flickering. I almost want to protest, but stop as she leaves the sofa and gets down on eye level with me, resting on her knees. "—I know that after two years of marriage you must be wondering when we're going to take… _that_ step in our relationship. Come on, aren't you?"

"I suppose it wouldn't be very honest of me to say that I haven't logged many hours into thinking about what our kids would look like, if we ever have any," I blush.

" _When_ we have any," she corrects. She takes my hand and holds it close to her chest, where the steady _thump-thump_ of her heart comforts me, and I lean down to place a light peck on her lips. "We will have kids one day, Ron, I promise. I think though, that it would better if we wait a few more years. We're still so young, and I think we should settle into our careers a bit more before we take on such a responsibility, you know?"

"I agree, love. Has this been on your mind for some time?"

"I was afraid it was on yours," she shrugs. "That you were wondering why we're not trying yet."

"I'm ready whenever you are, Hermione. You just tell me when _you_ want to start trying, all right?"

"Right," she sighs in relief, "Thank you, Ron. So…" she wriggles into my embrace and I hold her tightly, finding our carpet surprisingly cozy, "… what _do_ you think they'll look like?"

"I thought you said you didn't want kids right now, silly!"

"I said I didn't want to _have_ them right now—that doesn't mean we can't talk about them."

"Fine," I chuckle, stroking her flat belly. "Truthfully, I imagine them looking like you."

"Really? But I want them to have red hair and blue eyes," Hermione pouts.

"As long as they have your face," I compromise, nuzzling into her soft cheek.

"Deal," says Hermione, and she proceeds to close the small gap between us to snog me senseless.

* * *

It takes another four years, but there's no mistaking the deeply embedded desire in her eyes when I see it. She peers over the top of _Great Expectations_ and stares at me, dark and clearly intent on such carnal matters. I shrug off my coat and place it in the closet, wincing slightly at the sting in my muscled limbs. Working with the twins in their booming practical jokes shop is fun and all, but spending eight hours a day restocking shelves and handling heavy boxes—especially when you don't have the aid of magic to help you—definitely does a number on a bloke. I grunt and slither over to her on the couch, where she instantly takes notice to my condition.

"Tired, love?"

"Long day," I mumble into her neck, kissing the delicate skin. "I missed you. I really appreciate you dropping by to deliver my lunch."

"It's the least I could do," she coos, stroking my hair, "when my big strong man is out working hard all day while I'm sitting here enjoying my day off."

"If I remember correctly, the only reason you're even taking today off is because you haven't used a _single_ vacation day and your boss insisted on it, my workaholic darling."

"Hmph," Hermione feigns offense, giving me a light pinch on the upper arm. "Well Miss Workaholic made beef stew with French bread for dinner. Does that sound agreeable to you, Ronald?"

"Very," I say. "I was just kidding, Hermione. I know you're working hard to make the world better for house-elephants and whatnot—"

"House- _elves_ , dearie."

"Right," I laugh and she awards me with a playful punch to the arm.

"It's no matter though. I know Kingsley is an inch away from giving me that promotion—then I'll be my own boss, and I won't _ever_ have to take a vacation again!"

"Ugh," I groan.

"I'm joking, love. Really. Besides…" her fingers begin a sultry walk down my back, "I've been thinking and… well, I'm actually hoping on exerting my extra energy toward another matter."

"And what would that be?"

"I was thinking that… maybe we're ready."

"To?" I tease, already knowing exactly what she's getting at. But still—I want to hear her say it.

"To have a baby," she says in a single breath; my heart somersaults.

"Hmm," I moan, dragging my lips across her rosy cheek, "and how long have you wanted this, Hermione?"

"A while," she answers in a husky breath; I can tell she's getting into it too. "I've been tracking my cycle and I think, if my calculations are right, that we would have a very good chance if we tried… _tonight_."

"Tonight, love? But didn't you once tell me that the contraceptive potion takes a week to lose its effectiveness? Or," I look up at her curiously, "have you already stopped taking it?"

"I most certainly have not!" she says, and for a moment looks legitimately offended. "I wouldn't have stopped taking it without telling you. Especially considering how often we go at it."

"I'm sorry," I save myself, "I didn't mean it like that. I'm only wondering how we can—er, conceive—if you're still on the potion?"

"There's…" she stops for a moment, blushing, "… there's also a potion I could take to immediately counteract the effects of the contraceptive. Witches from the past realized that sometimes us women experience... er, sudden _urges_ to procreate with their partner. Especially when their partner looks so deliciously handsome tonight."

"So let me make sure I understand all of this correctly," I begin, imitating her matter-of-fact tone. For good measure, I even detach myself from her embrace (as painful as it is to do so) and sit up straight on the couch to address her: "You're saying you want to have a baby. You're also saying that you want me to be the one who fathers this baby?" She nods, grinning at my little game. "And, finally, you're saying you're prepared to make this baby tonight of all nights?"

"If you'll have me, Ronald Weasley." She extends her hands to me, which I gently take, turning them over to kiss each palm. I hold her little hands in my lap, stroking her tiny fingers, amazed at how holding her just like this can arouse such a reaction in me. I turn her arms over and bring them up to my face, where I plant butterfly kisses along the inside of her wrist, her forearm... my lips linger on her scar: her badge of courage; her remnant of the war. "What are you thinking about, love?"

"What if we do have a baby," I breathe heavily, "and they're… like me?"

"Like you?"

"A Muggle."

"Oh," her smile falls slightly. "Technically, in our case the baby would be a Squib."

"Does that matter?" I ask. "Even if they are magical, they'll still be teased for having a Muggle dad, won't they? And what if my genes mess everything up and they turn out not having magic at all? I don't want our kids to be made fun of or—"

"Ronald _Bilius_ Weasley," she begins firmly, and I know I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. I sit up straight, bracing myself for the inevitable lecture, "I cannot believe that after knowing me for this long—being married to me for _this_ long—you could even _think_ that I would care about such a thing. I'll have you know that Ron Weasley _the Muggle_ is my best friend and the man I fell in love with, Ron Weasley _the Muggle_ is the man I married in the backyard of my parent's home when we were only nineteen, and Ron Weasley _the Muggle_ is the man I plan to have children with. If that's at all disagreeable to you—"

"That's not what I meant, Hermione," I say, "It's just… I remember all that you told me, years ago, about how Squibs and Muggles are viewed by magical society. I'm afraid for them, that's all."

"There will always be prejudiced people, Ron. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about that. But society's attitudes have gotten a lot better since Voldemort died, I promise. If anything, pureblood supremacists are in the minority, and _they're_ the ones looked down on by the rest of us. Would you love our child any less if he or she were a Squib?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then there's nothing to worry about," she finishes in one breath before leaning forward to kiss me more urgently and passionately than I've ever been kissed by her—and _that's_ saying something. I take the opportunity to gather her slender legs in my arms, picking her up bridal style as I carry her measly one hundred-twenty pounds like a feather toward our bedroom.

"Wait," she gasps between kisses, "I need to take the potion."

"Can't it wait, darling?" I pout, not wanting to put her down. "I mean, we do have all night. This can be a... a practice round." I wriggle my eyebrows suggestively.

"Good idea," she smirks back at me, "but… the dinner will get cold."

"The _dinner_ will get _cold?_ " I repeat. "Are you a witch or not?"

"Oh—right," she flushes, pulling out her wand from the pocket of her pajama bottoms and pointing it through the half-wall leading to the kitchen, muttering a familiar warming charm under her breath. "That's better." Then, my dearest seems to be overwhelmed with desire, for she throws her wand on the couch and resumes her assault on my mouth, panting and gasping beneath me and pulling at my shirt, all the while I effortlessly hold up her light pillow of body. Not even the stress of a long day's work can leave me too tired to connect with Hermione in the most intimate way possible.

It feels so natural, holding her against me like this, as we topple onto our bed and commence to more snogging. Her little body crushed against mine as she pants and says my name, her frizzled locks tickling my nose, the way she tenderly brushes my ginger fringe from my face—it's all so unbelievably brilliant. To think—looking down at her, her brown eyes batting madly, a pink tinge rising in her round cheeks—that this is the same girl whom I loathed for what seemed to be so long; the girl who made me groan every time she raised her hand in class… the same girl that would be mothering my children. _Our_ children. Blimey.

Hermione, being as meticulously observant as she is, must take notice to my lingering gaze, for she extends a hand to my face and gently strokes the auburn fuzz near my chin, the soft hairs tickling her fingers.

"What are you thinking about, husband of mine?"

"You, of course."

"Anything specific?"

"How much I love you."

"Hmm," she releases a breathy little moan, closing her eyes as she continues to caress my face, "how much?"

" _So_ much."

"For how long?"

I give a deep chuckle, lowering my face to place butterfly kisses on her eyelids and nose bridge, before making my way to her left ear.

"Since we were kids." She's heard this a million times before, but the satisfied grin that cracks across her features every time it touches her ears makes it worth saying a million times more. "Why else do you think I spontaneously approached you that day in the dining hall? I was destined to fall for you."

"Really?" she giggles as my lips graze past an especially sensitive area near her lobe. "Why _did_ you decide to approach me that day, Ron?"

I cease my affectionate ministrations to look at her, wondering if I even have an answer to her question. I lick my lips, thinking.

"Because I wanted to get to know you," I decide. "Something told me there was more to Hermione Granger than being the girl who made the rest of the class look bad…" I chuckle inwardly, reminding myself that I'm married to a witch, "I guess I wasn't wrong about that, was I?"

Hermione doesn't respond. Instead, she closes the gap between us once more, bringing our bodies even closer by wrapping her arms around my neck, forcing all of my weight to mold into her tiny frame, making us one. And through the thin layer of her nightshirt, I can feel the chain of her Jack Russell Terrier necklace pressing against me.

* * *

"There, there Rosie," I coo, setting my wriggling two-year-old daughter down on her multi-hued play mat in front of the television set. Our recently adopted cat, Crookshanks, immediately jumps down from the couch to keep her company, and for once I manage to pet the top of his head in appreciation without him hissing at me.

"He's half-Kneazle," Hermione had explained when, several weeks earlier, she showed up after work with the lion-esque beast purring in her arms. "I'm sorry I didn't ask you first, Ron. I was strolling through Diagon Alley during my lunch break and—and I saw him sitting in the window of the Magical Menagerie. The saleswoman said the poor thing has been sitting there forever with no one wanting to adopt him. And... well, look at him!" She held out the ginger-furred blob, and he stared at me with contemptuous yellow eyes. "Isn't he adorable? Kneazles are very intelligent too; they can detect an untrustworthy person from a mile away and are very protective of the ones that care for them. He'll make a perfect little playmate for Rose, don't you think?"

While the cat had taken an immediate liking to the two ladies of the household (and had even allowed Harry to pet him the last time he visited), it took a while for him to warm up to me, growling in my direction whenever he passed me in the halls. Now, however, the creature has apparently decided to tolerate me because he sees how much Rose and Hermione care for me. (Or perhaps because I'm the one who most often tends to his food bowl and kitty litter, I'm not so sure.) Today a purr as I stroke his head, perhaps tomorrow I can actually get him to sit on my lap. The cat curls up next to Rose, who extends a pudgy little baby arm to touch him, giggling.

"That's right, darling. You just sit with Crookshanks and watch _The Little Mermaid_ while I get Mummy for dinner."

As if on cue, the very pregnant Hermione enters the sitting room from down the hall, rubbing her swollen abdomen through the thin material of her nightgown.

"All right, you lot?" she inquires with a smile.

"Very," I step forward, planting a chaste kiss on her cheek. "The pot roast is ready, love."

"Great, little Hugo and I are starving," she says, patting her practically-ready-to-pop belly. She makes her way into the kitchen, sighing in appreciation at the meaty scent wafting through our home.

"I think Rosie is very excited to become a big sister," I observe, glancing at our daughter over the half-wall, where she is still sitting, patting a subdued Crookshanks as Ariel sacrifices her voice to the sea-witch. Rose Weasley truly is the perfect combination of myself and her mother: thick, shoulder-length ginger curls, bright blue eyes, and her mother's soft facial structure. She also appears to have inherited her mother's brains as well, for she started clear speech patterns several months before the norm—even by wizarding standards, according to Hermione. Given how intelligent our baby is, however, an obvious question has been lingering on my mind since the moment she called me "Daddy"…

"Hermione," I begin, watching as my wife piles some red potatoes onto her plate, "I was wondering…"

"Yes, Ron?"

"Well, I was wondering… Rose is two now. When can we expect her to start showing signs of magic? I mean, assuming that she _is_ —"

"I've told you this before, darling. Every situation is different. Some babies have been known to display magic fresh out the womb, while others take much longer. My parents told me the incident with me at the park happened when I was three. Rose's time will come when it comes. Now," she turns away from the slow cooker with a plate easily full enough to feed two people in one hand, while in the other she holds a smaller plate designated for Rose, with the potatoes and meat cut into manageable pieces, "get yourself a plate and a tray and join us. I love you." She pecks my cheek before gracefully floating out of the room, leaving me to ponder. Sighing, I begin to prepare a hearty helping on my plate when—

"Ron!" Hermione's high-pitched yelp suddenly pierces my eardrums from the next room. "Ron, come here!"

Without a second thought, I bolt into the sitting room, ready to fight to death if necessary. But, instead of seeing an intruder or another dangerous force, there's Hermione, standing in front of one of the television trays with the two plates of food on them, staring at our daughter. When I follow her gaze, I release a throaty gasp: Crookshanks is levitating—literally _floating_ —in the air above our daughter's head. Rose is staring upward, focusing on our cat—our cat who is _surprisingly_ calm as he is being held several feet in their air, presumably without his consent. In fact, he's purring and looking down at Rose, giggling on the floor.

"H-Hermione," I manage, turning toward my wife. "Is—Is she—?"

"Well _I'm_ certainly not doing it!"

I stare at my wife for another moment, and suddenly, we're bursting into an uproarious laughter as I go to hug our daughter and Hermione retrieves the purring Crookshanks from mid-air.

* * *

 _Fin_


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